ArchivedLogs:The Short Walk Home

The Short Walk Home
The Ivory Tower will not protect you.
Dramatis Personae Isra, Iztali
In Absentia	2013-06-17 Tali walks Isra home, possibly sparing some ne'er-do-wells a messy end.
Location <NYC> Columbia University - Morningside Heights
Situated in the Morningside Heights neighborhood, Columbia University is one of the most prestigious universities in the nation. This Ivy League school is the oldest university in New York, and attracts students from all over the world to study in its halls. With a generous sprinkling of Greek life and a Manhattan campus, Columbia students need not sacrifice anything by way of social life for their rigorous academic pursuits. It is evening, just before dusk. The great migration from the various academic buildings into libraries has reached its peak. Many hollow-eyed pilgrim scholars will spend the entire night in Butler studying, researching, or working on projects. Some linger in pairs or groups on the South Lawn, eating and chatting in the failing light. Slanting golden light casts long shadows down College Walk and makes the only pedestrian with horns, wings, and a tail look even more uncanny. Isra has not resumed her hijab, but here she still dresses as conservatively as she can manage without binding her wings. An art historian would probably identify the garment she wears presently as a himation, if ze got past staring slack-jawed like some of the passers-by. The voluminous dress is white and edged in cerulean-and-navy blue geometric trim. Her feet are wrapped in white athletic tape half-way up the calf, leaving bare only elongated toes--including the peculiar extra on what passed for her heel. The black courier bag slung over her shoulder and buckled across her chest looks incongruously modern, as does the large smartphone that does not look nearly large enough in her hands. Despite the warm weather, Tali is dressed in linen pants, a long-sleeved blouse in royal purple, and a pair of thin black gloves. By this late in the day, her dark, heavy hair has tumbled loose over her shoulders. She is swinging along quite handily on a pair of aluminum axillary crutches. In her haste, she has resorted to avoiding weightbearing on her left leg at all. Her corduroy messenger bag bounces against her right hip as she moves. As she falls in step with Isra, she does return to a more natural gait, toe-touching on the left. “I do wish you might have waited for me. It really isn’t safe,” serves as her hello. Isra cants her head and studies the crutches as though they were artifacts from another world. “You did not answer my text,” she replies evenly, slowing down almost imperceptibly, “I thought perhaps something else came up. I did not know you were injured.” This last she says more softly. “You should not worry so much about my safety, when you are the one on crutches.” She manages to /not/ sound like a chiding teacher by adding the faint hint of a smile. “I guess The Troubles have not treated you well? Or is this unrelated?” Tali makes a /chk/ sound with her tongue against the roof of her mouth, her expression clearly indicating that she had missed any such text. “I have been working on my focus not to hear things that…are not /present/,” she explains, leaning heavily on the multiple meanings of ‘present’. “I’m afraid this frequently seems to include tuning out any form of notification from my phone.” She frowns down at the sidewalk. “To be perfectly blunt, I am not the one to be an obvious target.” Pausing, Tali glances around to determine no one is in easy earshot of their conversation before she continues. “I was at the coffee shop that was attacked and burned. There was quite a lot of smoke and glass. And so there was some concern for smoke inhalation, and there are now a number of stitches, on my arm and the back of my head. A particularly large shard embedded deeply in my left knee, and continued to break as I walked on it. I didn’t precisely have the time to remove it while I was dragging a friend out of the building, so the doctors had the honour of performing the task later. I’m not supposed to try putting full weight on it for at least a week.” Her somewhat disgruntled tone implies that she will be walking on it after one week /to the second/ from time she was told this. “Not everyone fared as well as I. So you might see why I am…particularly concerned.” “I heard about what happened at Evolve in only the vaguest terms.” Isra does not seem excessively concerned about being overheard. “But what I did hear was bad enough. I am glad you are on the mend.” Her eyes catch the last rays of dusky light and glow an unearthly green for just a few seconds while she studies Tali’s wounded leg. “I have not experienced any violence as a result of this unrest, but then, I have been sequestered at my place of employment for the past week. Thank you, by the way, for your concern, and your warning. I...was warned often, by multiple independent sources.” She shrugs very slightly, the motion barely noticeable but for the rise and dip of her wings. “I have heeded these warnings, for the most part, but the appointment with my adviser was crucial. It would be most discouraging to my students if I were ejected from the program now. Besides,” she adds, a whimsical note creeping into her voice, “I have hypotheses to prove. Still, I have a hard time imagining anyone is going to give me any trouble on campus or so close to it, in full sight of CCTV.” Isra turns left as they reach the corner of Amsterdam Avenue, unafraid of the well-lit passage beneath the broad skyway. A cluster of humanoid shadows shuffle out from behind the second pillar of the underpass directly in front of them. When Isra automatically changes course to go around them, they move into her path. She stops, raises a bare eyebrow ridge. “Excuse me?” she says, not quite managing to omit the inquisitive tone. “Is there a problem?” As if suspecting the answer, she glances across the street at the bus stop where several weary students stare fixedly at their feet, determined not to get involved. “I think there is,” replies the man in the middle. He is of average build, a visually indistinct New World blend of Caucasian and something-else, and wears a red polo shirt with an onion embroidered on the left breast. The color of the garment reinforces the faint ginger tinge of his brown hair. “You appear to be under the impression that /monsters/ may walk among equals here.” “I understand there are things you need to accomplish, and do think that you should do them, but I feel it unwise for you to travel alone,” Tali reiterates her earlier warning. “There are no guarantees of safety. The police themselves are initiating much of the violence! Those who strike out against persons with visible mutations are brazen currently, they fear no prosecution. The system has abandoned—” Her argument fizzles in a sudden hiss of released breath as people skulk from the shadows. “Sometimes I /hate/ being right,” she concludes bitterly, even before the man speaks. “I agree there is a problem, but believe you misapprehend its nature. It seems you have come to the unfortunate conclusion that one might be determined to be a monster based on appearances rather than natures…or even deeds deserving of such labels.” This last receives a cold emphasis from Tali, perhaps intended to serve as a reminder to analyse any planned course of action more deeply. Not that she is overly optimistic about such a statement’s efficacy. She keeps her dark eyes locked on this self-elected spokesman. “You waste your friendship on the likes of this thing,” the spokesman says, evidently addressing Tali as he underlines his last word by jerking his chin sharply in Isra’s direction. “We do not judge beasts by their natures or deeds. We know they are /not us./ It is a scientifically verifiable fact.” “You may scientifically verify any number of genetic differences between human beings,” Isra rejoins icily. Her ears are pricked and her tail lashes the air rhythmically. “We must grow beyond dividing ourselves along such lines, or risk destroying each other in the attempt to each be /right./” “Human!” the spokesman scoffs, shaking his head. He does not seem perturbed so much as amused, but the man at his right hand--huge and blonde and wearing a Philadelphia Eagles jersey that somehow still looks big on him--almost lunges. “You’re not human!” the Eagles fan asserts, his face contorting into a sort of pruney mask of disapproval. Huge hands clasp and unclasp, as if searching for something to crush. His leader is making no move to restrain him. “The value of my friendship is a thing best determined by myself and those who would count themselves as my friends. Clearly it is a thing that would hold no worth to you,” Tali continues, keeping her voice as even as she can. “We judge everything by its nature and deeds, at least in part. Don’t assert baseless nonsense.” Her tone is obviously unimpressed. She continues to press a logical argument, as she is quite comfortable there. It is positive that these people came from that direction, however poorly reasoned! “I think the scientific /evidence/ is not on your side. A single gene mutation does not another species make. What are we to say for persons with genetic deletion syndromes, or syndromes of chromosomal duplication? There are lists of those as long as my arm. Is a person with Down Syndrome not human? They would, after all, possess an entire extra chromosome.” In the meantime, she has shifted her weight off of one of her crutches. They make handy defensive /and/ offensive weapons, actually. “We’ve got us a med school zombie,” says the man on spokesman’s left, tall and sallow and a bit med school zombie-like himself. “Guess they’re not teaching the controversy there.” Spokesman chuckles. “There’s an ongoing debate about whether to class your so-called ‘mutants’ as a subspecies, /Homo sapiens superior/ or another species entirely, /Homo superior/. Note the ‘superior’ in either case.” He fixes hazel eyes on Tali. “They think they’re better, they think they are evolution’s next big hat trick. More than that, they are out to replace us--whether they intend to or not. It’s said the X-gene is dominant. Settle down, will you?” This he says without turning away from the women, but it becomes apparent that he was addressing the Eagles fan when the latter subsides with a morose pout. “We are only here to issue a warning to al-Jazari: withdraw from the University as soon as possible. Don’t make a fuss about it. Find some mutie-loving school if you like, but this one doesn’t want you.” “I will consider your recommendation,” Isra says, breathing the last syllable between gritted teeth, long canines flashing momentarily in the sickly fluorescent lighting, “but you do not speak for the student body or the administration.” “Don’t I?” spokesman asks, looking singularly pleased with himself all of a sudden. “Name’s Deacon. Take the ‘recommendation’ or leave it, but remember that your place of residence is no secret.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his Dockers as if to indicate he has said all he intends to say and means to go. “No medical school,” Tali asserts coolly. “Anthropology. Study of /human/ society, culture, development…/evolution/.” She arches a brow, perhaps to match the archness of her tone, the targeted emphasis of her words. “Even accounting for some form of selective favourability, simple single gene dominance is extraordinarily unlikely to breed out a recessive phenotype in any timeframe worth consideration, on the scale of human generations. This is a specious argument.” Then she smiles at the spokesman, not her typical half-smile, actually showing teeth herself. “Deacon. Thank you. That will make filing my report much simpler.” “Have fun,” Deacon replies, winking at Tali before he brushes past the two women with cronies in tow. Isra swivels to keep them in sight, dropping her center of gravity as if she were ready to pounce. As the three men keep walking without turning back, however, she relaxes and assumes her wonted stance. “Deacon,” she echoes. “I think I saw that name in this semester’s catalog somewhere, which probably does not bode well. Reporting this might just make it worse...” She trails off. Her wide pupils catch and reflect the headlights of a car heading down the other side of the street, flashing like a cat’s in the dim light of the underpass. “For all I know, someone in my own department sent him.” There is a faint rumble of a growl in her sigh, but she resumes walking. “I’ll know better than to tempt Murphy’s Law next time when I haven’t any wood to knock.” Tali grumbles faintly as the men finally proceed out of earshot. It is nearly a growl. “Trying to include me in their /us/ as if I wanted any part of it! They are clearly judging based solely on surface appearances or they would have done no such thing. If you’re going to be a bigoted prat, just step up and admit you’re a bigoted prat. Don’t hide behind rhetorical convolusions and tortured logic, pretending to be a legitimately concerned citizen.” She shifts a larger percentage of her weight back over the crutches. “That was a /threat/, Isra. It was not even a veiled one. I shudder to think what might have happened if I were not here, looking sympathetically human and injured. It /must/ be reported. What if they do attack you later and you need to defend yourself? All claims are going to be that the ‘monster’ went wild and attacked unprovoked! You know who will be believed and who will not. The evidence for the truth of the matter must be prepared.” “You have a lot more faith than I do in the justice system if you think any jury would exonerate me in a self-defense case,” Isra says, sounding not so much bitter as weary. “I am sure that his threat, veiled or otherwise, is empty. Most people are not prepared to actually commit felonies over their prejudices, if only by sheer force of inertia. Besides, I do not look particularly /easy/ to subdue, as monsters go. Still, you are right, some official record of this may help, if it ever came to that.” By the time they emerge from the underpass, the sun has set. The sky looks like a dome of pale blue cloth darkening from where it dips into the water in the east. Even through the haze and light pollution, a sprinkling of stars shine. Isra tilts her head back and smiles. “Thank you, Tali. I would rather not drag you into these kinds of confrontations, but I appreciate that I was probably safer with you there than without. You have troubles of your own, and I wish I could be more help to you.” “I would not be so sure about the emptiness of the threats. Things have gotten ugly in the city, Isra. Ever since that police officer was killed. People have taken it as license to forget whatever civility typically clung to them. It does not help that the authorities are complicit in…all of it.” Tali frowns again. It has been an evening for frowning. “You truly do not need to thank me. What sort of person would I be, not to help such a thing when it is a simple matter to do so?” She shakes her head emphatically. “There has been some small manner of assistance for me. A friend who is able to reduce the strength of my abilities for short periods of time. This has given me the opportunity to practice quieting them myself. I have been making progress, albeit slow.” “My colleagues had not given me the impression that the authorities are /complicit/, per se.” Isra crosses her arms over her chest and clutches her upper arms with long, spindly fingers. “They only insisted that I stay out of the city if at all possible due to the civil unrest. I got the impression that the police were not necessarily...eager to come to the assistance of those whose mutations are obvious or dangerous. I suppose mine are both--more the former than the latter, though that is changing.” She turns the corner onto her usually quiet street, and comes to an unplanned stop. Her pointed ears press back against her skull and she expels a long breath through her nose. “Lovely,” she mutters, and starts walking again. Half a block later, what Isra’s night vision showed her becomes obvious to unaugmented eyes: red spraypaint mars the door and windows of a rowhouse, spelling the words “GET OUT MUTIE SCUM.” “You can guess which door is mine,” Isra says, fishing keys out of her bag and ascending the stairs. “You may be doing only what you think is right, but I am grateful all the same. I do not know many friendly faces in the city.” She gazes ruefully at the door. As messy as the graffiti is, its creator went through the trouble of making sure it covered the peephole. “I don’t suppose you would like to come in for a cup of coffee or tea?” “Oh, you have no idea,” Tali asserts bitterly. “The officer that was killed? He deserved what he got. I /saw/ him,” she holds up a gloved hand to elucidate her meaning, “beating and kidnapping /children/ with physical mutations. Him and his partner, /in uniform/, with tasers and batons. Against children on their way home from the grocery store in broad daylight!” Her hands clench tightly on the grips of her crutches. The knuckles would be showing white if not for her gloves. “They are stopping mutants on the street and beating them without cause. They get arrested if they resist. A young man was shot and killed. I would bet /high/ that he did nothing to warrant it.” Tali eyes the building, when she is finally able to see what Isra had found long before. “This…this is also everywhere.” Her teeth meet with her lower lip at the invitation. “I would, but,” she pauses, lifting her hand again. It has gotten quite the bit of exercise this evening. “I can pretty much guarantee that I would invade your privacy in some form. Between the rooms and whatever is in them and…certainly if I were to drink anything.” Isra’s wings mantle slightly as she listens. It give the impression of a dog raising its hackles, even though her expression remains neutral. “Good riddance, bad aftershocks,” she murmurs. There is a distant look in her green eyes, a kind of abstract anger. “The Troubles, indeed. I should have stopped hiding a long time ago.” She shakes her head. “My primary concern is for your comfort; as for my privacy...I think you would be rather bored, honestly.” Her wings flutter and dip when she shrugs. “Up until a few months ago, astronomy was my life. Of late, I have not spent much time here at all, except when I was indisposed. I would not give you a tour of my bedroom, for that reason if nothing else. I am just loath to send you on your way like this. Might I call you a taxi, at least? I do not actually know where you live.” “I could use a little boredom, honestly.” Tali rocks a bit on her crutches, fidgeting. “I just… I have really only been in two other people’s homes since this happened. One is the friend who is able to reduce the strength of my ability, so it is not…so intrusive there. The other. Was. Troubling.” Her brows knit. “I am not far. But I am likely to return to the library regardless.” “I cannot offer any special dampening, but I /can/ offer decent food, which I am going to have delivered in vast quantities at the soonest convenience,” Isra leans against the ornate wrought iron railing, her tail weaving back and forth in a vaguely whimsical fashion. “I might have stayed on campus myself, except that I badly wanted a meal.” She pauses, canting her head. The long, backswept horns make the angle look all the more extreme. “That, and Butler’s chairs are in no way designed to accommodate my anatomy. If you would rather not risk aggravating your sixth sense, I respect that completely, and wish you a good evening.” “I…” Tali pauses, pressing her lips into a thin line. “If you truly do not mind? I will make my best conscious effort to avoid prying. For what my conscious efforts are worth.” She offers a small smile at this. “At the very least, food coming from elsewhere likely will only tell about the delivery person or the restaurant.” “I truly do not mind,” Isra reassures her. “Most of my secrets are available to anyone with open access and the ability to match a description to a picture.” So saying, she unlocks the door and flicks on the lights in the entryway. “Come on in.” “I would find that somewhat disconcerting,” Tali admits as she crutch-steps her way forward. “I’m going to…do my best not to touch the door. Unless you’d like to know precisely who did this, in which case maybe I /should/.” This comes with a wry grin. Tali pauses as she passes Isra, and almost certainly would have rested a hand on her arm in other circumstances. “Thank you.” “/You/ do not need to thank me, either.” Isra’s smile is unguarded and a bit fangy. “As for the vandal or vandals--I do not care. Let them waste their time and paint on hate. We have dinner to eat.” She closes the door behind Tali and, a moment later, turns on the light over her stoop. A warm, welcoming glow illuminates a semicircle of the white marble steps and the old black door with “MUTIE SCUM” written across it in jagged scarlet letters.