ArchivedLogs:Truth Bomb

Truth Bomb
Dramatis Personae Ion, Jax, Simon, Tian-shin	2015-09-26 "{Christ's love shines through you no less than through me.}"
Location <NYC> St. Martin's Church - Harlem
St. Martin de Porres Catholic Church is not large, but it has a quiet majesty to it all the same, in the way of many old churches. A tall stone building tucked into the center of Harlem, it is one of the earliest Catholic churches in the city, and it looks it. Inside, the wooden pews stretch off towards the alter, the crucifix an immense and solemn wooden carving that presides over it all. Most of the windows are stained class, rich and vibrantly colourful depictions of various saints and Biblical scenes. Small recesses along the wall hold the Stations of the Cross depicted in intricate stone carvings, and the prayer alcove holds real flickering votive candles unlike many modern churches who have switched over to electric. The vaulted ceiling has detailed painting done between its arches, and the distinctive scent of frankincense often lingers faintly in the air. Below, the basement of the church has been heavily modernized; there is a pair of meeting rooms for classes, a pair of bathrooms with showers, a door leading out to the tiny adjoining rectory building where the pastor lives. In tribute to the church's namesake, ministries for the poor are a large part of the church community; one room holds a wealth of donated clothing that is free for any to take. With the large dining room and industrial kitchen that serve hot dinners six days a week and distribute donated bags of groceries every Monday, there are frequent visitors through here who are often in need of the helping hand. It's late afternoon on a brilliant crisp autumn day, and the streets of Harlem are clogged with foot traffic. The streets surrounding St. Martin's have been closed off for the day, guarded by hundreds of uniformed NYPD officers and dozen of patrol cars. Glossy black unmarked cars with heavily tinted windows also dot the block, as well as several ambulances and a fire truck. Just outside the police line, curious onlookers mingle with opportunistic street vendors selling Pope-themed paraphernalia as well as clusters of impassioned protesters. The picket signs and banners run the gamut, emblazoned with slogans like "Pope = Antichrist", "God Hates Freaks", "Little Church of Horrors", and both the tried and true "Mutants Go Home" and its corollary, "Mutie-lovers Go Home." Inside, the little neighborhood church has been packed to capacity since long before the service even began. The regular parishioners are joined by at least an equal number of visitors, some of whom sport souvenirs from the vendors outside. During the Mass itself, the Pontiff's personal guard detail--from the Vatican, the Secret Service, and the NYPD alike--reluctantly retreat and cede the altar to the celebrants. The local priests joining Pope Francis in this particular Mass, the smallest of his New York visit, are all known mutants or humans vocal in their support of mutant rights. No one who has paid close attention to this papal visit could miss the significance of his selection, to say nothing of choosing *this* church of all places. The Pope's homily addressed the power of men to do ill unto one another as they did unto Christ, and emphasized that God stands with and lifts up the oppressed of the world. He did not, in examining the passages, explicitly launch into any tirades about mutants particularly as so many pundits have speculated and as the protesters outside obviously fear. As the service draws to a close, however, the Pontiff takes to the podium again with many thanks to the parish for suffering his whims. "Saint Martin de Porres," he says, "was the illegitimate son of a freed slave and a nobleman who would not acknowledge him. So little did his countrymen respect him that he was not permitted to take vows, but served as a humble lay brother. Yet he so loved God and his fellow man that he took under his care anyone who needed his aid, and turned no one away for the amount of coin in their purse, the color of their skin, or the state of their health." He lifts his eyes to the statue of the saint. "It was said that he could pass through locked doors, that he appeared with impossible speed at the side of his ailing brothers, that he could rise into the very air itself. If we call these acts 'miracles,' how can we be so quick to fear and loathe the same acts from another? Would the power of men, in our day, take Saint Martin up in chains, and keep him imprisoned for naught but the display of his miraculous abilities?" His fine brows knit with sorrow. "How many of our brothers and sisters live in bondage still, and how many suffer daily the injustices of common bigotry, sanctioned by the law of the land but worse, far worse, by the consent of /our/ silence." Here he pauses long, a palpable silence filling the space above the enormous congregation. "Yours and mine. We must wake ourselves and one another to our complicity. We must speak the truth that God shows us, and act with love to all our brethren: not only those who look like us, but also those who seek sanctuary under Saint Martin's protection, as so many did here." Jax has a seat up in the /very/ front of the church -- something that is, no doubt, adding fuel to those protesters outside. He's dressed quite neatly today, a pale grey suit with a faint sheen to it, striped tie neatly tied -- though his /hair/ still bears its brilliantly hued peacock-toned dyes and he hasn't removed any of his piercings, things which no doubt didn't /help/ make anyone more comfortable with the fact that the outspoken mutant liberationist was chosen as one of the Lectors to do the readings for this Mass. Now he sits, fingers fidgeting restlessly in his lap and a very (very!) small smile twitching at his pierced lips as the pontiff speaks. Directly behind Jax, Ion is less staid. Around his neck there are several strings of glittering jeweled rosary beads; he /does/ wear a suit jacket but /under/ it he has an Argentinan national football jersey; there's /face/ paint around one eye in the blue and white of the Argentine flag. He has, at least, removed the HAT he was wearing earlier (Tall! Papal! With Francis's face on it!) At the pope's words, he does not smile small. He leans forward to JOSTLE at Jax, grinning huge and throwing a fist into the air. A WHOOP follows. "/See/ that?" His gravelly voice kind of loudly /stage/-whispers in Jax's ear. "That's my /dog/, yo!" Sitting near Ion is Simon. The meek young man is dressed simply, nice pants, nice white shirt, tie, suit jacket, and a cross around his neck. He's nervous to be around so many people but he wasn't going to pass up a chance to see the Pope. Even if the local church back home had turned on him for being a mutant, he still had his faith. Strawberry blond hair combed neatly, he's more reserved than Ion, looking up in awe as the Pope speaks. Ion's whooping and excitement have him giving a deer in the headlights look for a moment though. "If you're too loud you might get thrown out," he tries to caution the other mutant. Tian-shin, dressed in a smart red blouse, tight black jeans, and black high-heeled boots, has watched the entire service from Ion's side, standing and sitting and kneeling a beat behind most everyone else sitting in that section. Her eyes, already wide with wonder, grow wider as the speech concludes and the security personnel begin to close in eagerly around the pope to shield him from the adoring crowd as it begins to stir. "Wow!" She blows a long stream of air. "Did he just imply that Saint Martin was a mutant?" she asks fairly quietly--though she does not seem too worried herself about getting kicked out for volume. "Is that a commonly held belief?" Jax's bright hair spills down over his forehead, his smile tipping wider as he is jostled from behind. "S'pose he is. -- An' I think he jus' might've. M'sure the press is gonna have a field day with that one. Catholic news 'specially is gonna be havin' a collective aneurysm." His voice is low, too, though he also seems largely unbothered about the potential for getting kicked out -- despite a few uncomfortable glares from people nearby towards Ion's whooping. He gives Simon a crooked smile over one shoulder. "Don't encourage him," is light, a quietly amused murmur. "Yo shit I thought most the cops was outside, we got the fun police right here." Ion seems amused more than offended, brows hiking up at Simon's caution. "Who the fuck you think's gonna do the throwing, yo -- yo yo YO," now his eyes are widening further, and he /leaps/ to his feet with another (MUCH louder!) whoop, clasping Tian-shin eagerly around her upper arm and shaking /that/ instead. "Yo look he on the /move/ shit shit shit! Fran/cisco/, {my man, you dropping some /truth/ on us homeboy!}" He is yelling this (very loud! Across the aisles!) in Spanish over the crowd as the staid procession of Priestliness begins to ready itself for filtering out of the Mass. "{I've been /in/ those fucking cages that's some bullshit, ey?} Ain't /no/ love in leaving people to rot in there." There seems to be some sort of brief, fiercely whispered disagreement as the Pontiff's guards re-converge on him, the discussion inaudible even to those up front for the swelling recessional music. In the end, the Pope just rests both hands on the shoulders of his nearest bodyguard and gives the man a rueful smile before joining the other priests as they file out in the wake of the crucifix. /Through/ the entire congregation. The gathered faithful and not-so-faithful alike surge to their feet. It's a slightly tamer equivalent of the crowd going wild. The recession is a slow one, as Francis clasps hands or exchanges embraces with every parishioner in his path. Which virtually guarantees that his path grows narrower and narrower as he goes, much to his security detail's chagrin. He does look up and scan the crowd when Ion begins shouting in Spanish, his expression unreadable but clearly moved. Simon smiles shyly to Jax when the other man looks his way. "I'm sure the news will be spreading across the globe soon if it hasn't started to already," he murmurs. He tries to draw in on himself when Ion draws glances in their general direction but just ends up pouting when called the fun police. He starts to reply but Ion jumping up has him looking surprised and his shoulders slumping. He murmurs a quiet 'oh dear' in German as he watches Ion get so enthusiastic but he still smiles. He turns to watch Papal parade go by, his smile growing when he notices the Pope's reaction. "I thank God I was able to be here for this..." "He's got--courage, I'll give him that. There's some disgruntled people even in here, now." Tian-shin scrambles to her feet, eyes flicking through the crowd around them. "I also think there are plenty of cops in here, actually." She has to raise her voice above the music and the rising volume of excited chatter in the church. "But I suspect they've got better things to worry about than who's talking loudly. As long as we keep a respectful distance, they'll leave us alone." "Spreadin' fast. No doubt." There's a faint flicker of worry across Jax's expression with this acknowledgment, but it's brief. "An' yeah, he -- sure ain't shied from makin' a stir." It doesn't really dim the smile he wears, too much; though his eye does scrunch up in kiiind of a wince as Ion leaps up. His fingertips press to his lips -- in someone else the expression might look shocked, though the very soft breath that escapes him seems closer to a barely-caught laugh. "Oh. Oh /honey/-honey. How -- um -- how much -- distance would y'say it's gotta be t'be /respectful/ I wonder --" "Disgrunted, tch, fuck the haters." Ion plucks his PAPAL Pope Francis hat back off his bench, tucking it onto Tian-shin's head. "I'm /full/up on respect, you ain't /seen/ no motherfuckers more respectful to me. I give that man /mad/ respect. He understand, yeah? See all them hugs? Where we come from, huh, ain't none this fucking /distance/ shit. /Love/, that's how you show your respect." The glittery shiny rosaries around his neck clatter together as he starts to push his way out of the pew. Then frown deeply, not getting too far given the packed crowd. A moment later he's simply -- vanished. Probably not made any of the Secret Service too happy with him when he reappears near the aisle behind the exiting processional with a cracklepop and a sparking scent of ozone. Then vanishes again. Reappears /amid/ the processional this time -- and with a few disconcertingly twitchy zaps of the other priests in it shifts his way up beside the pontiff. For a sudden fierce -- hug. "{How many people they don't act like we're shit, huh? You keep it real, bro.}" Simon's attention returns to the small group when Jax and Tian-shin speak, listening curiously. "Knowing -them-...respectful distance is farther than we are now," he says with a touch of bitterness. The bitterness doesn't linger though, Ion distracting Simon. First he has the phase morpher curious about where Ion is from but then he's letting out a little 'oof!' as he's pushed past. When Ion disappears, Simon looks even more nervous. Of course his expression becomes a mix of horrifed and impressed when Ion is right there and grabbing the Pope for a hug. His mouth moves like he's trying to talk but can't figure out how to get words to work. In the back of the church, a small knot of people have unfolded a long banner between them that reads "Mutants Are Not God's Work." A few Secret Service agents had just begun to work their way toward these (admittedly quiet and staid) protesters, but Ion's sudden appearance beside the Pontiff shifts the entire security detail's priorities quite effectively. The priests, briefly conduits for Ion's electrical travel, look mostly perplexed and only slightly rattled. The Vatican security personnel closest to the Pope give a collective gasp and cluster around their holy charge as if deciding that what really needs to happen here is a *group* hug. The NYPD officers on the security detail--plain clothes all--are reaching for their sidearms. The Secret Service agents, on the other hand, are just shifting positions and subvocalizing into their comm sets ominously. Only Francis himself seems to take Ion's sudden arrival in stride. His eyes do widen fractionally, but it's hard to say whether this is in reaction to Ion's accessories or his teleportation. Either way, he wraps his arms around the younger man and presses their cheeks together. "{God bless you, my brother.}" The Pontiff's Spanish sounds distinctly similar to Ion's, and he speaks loudly enough to carry. "{Christ's love shines through you no less than through me.}" If the security personnel had a mind to jump in and seize Ion, they think twice of it now, though they still hover anxiously. Somewhere in the back, in the opposite corner from the lone protest banner, a ragged voice shouts, "It's mutants that brought the plague! It's mutants that made the dead walk the land." The murmuring of the crowd takes on a sudden nervous edge; they picked up on the pain and desperation in that singular voice, and it does not inspire confidence. Tian-shin doesn't have time to protest suddenly gaining a commemorative mitre, but gamely hurries after Ion as if she has some notion of keeping him out of trouble. "I don't think they're so much worried about whether you respect him so much as--" But then he's gone, and she swears softly in Mandarin under her breath. She doesn't need to look around for him, but knowing exactly where he's headed doesn't seem to /reassure/ her. The Pope's blessing, however, does--at least so far as it keeps to keep his security at bay for the moment. She turns to scan the congregation for the heckler now, little hope though she has in the entropy of the unsettled crowd. The fingertips that Jax has pressed to his lips splay out further, turning into more of a full-on facepalm with all of Ion's zapping around. His eye has opened very wide when Ion is actually embracing the Pope, a brief flutter rippling the light around him. His palm drags downward against his face. He exhales slowly -- but doesn't really /relax/, standing up a little straighter, a little more on /alert/ at that voice from the back. His eye darts to the back of the room only briefly, flicking back a moment later towards Ion and the pope and all the secret service. "It was the government makin' bio-weapons what brought the plague, but I ain't sure they're real keen on nuance jus' at the moment," he comments to Tian-shin with a small wrinkle of his nose, rocking up onto his toes to cast another look back towards the back corner. "See that, yo?" Ion's chin lifts to one of the nearer Secret Service personnel as he pulls back away. Claps Francis on the back companionably in passing. "I am /fill/ with Christ love." His route /out/ goes through the security and cops -- zap-zap-zap jolt, shimmying his way through the crowd with a rapid fluidity to work his way back towards Jax and Tian-shin, sling his arms around their shoulders. His grin is BRIGHT and wide, though his eyes are glistening -- bright, too. "Ey-o. Who's kick-out now?" His brows knit together, head cocking towards the back. "Wassat all about? Don't nobody listen in no news?" Simon tenses and shoots a look towards the back corner. He considers going back there but Ion coming back towards them has him feeling too uncomfortable to use his power openly. "People only pay attention to the news they want to hear. Like the American Fox news," he says, attention divided between the security, the two protesting spots, and the other nearby mutants. A pair of Secret Service agents have pushed ahead of the procession of priests and cleared a narrow but serviceable path to the front door without employing much more force than a few strategic pushes here and there. The Pope continues, not put off by Ion's visit, making his unhurried way through the congregation. The long banner remains up, facing down the Pope in silent disapproval as he passes. Through the chaos of energetic babble, a keen ear might discern that the balance of opinion has turned against the heckler in the back. No one shouts him down, exactly, but it has become clear enough that the man's attribution of blame, however impassioned, is not welcome here. As the front doors of the church open, the noise outside pours in: chanting protesters, police radio chatter, circling helicopters, and not one but three sets of sirens in the distance. Additional security personnel pour in to meet their beleaguered colleagues and escort the wayward Pope to his vehicle.