Logs:Coffee for my Family
| Coffee for my Family | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-04-28 When I say 'Brooklyn, stand up', you better just fix your posture-- |
| Location
<NYC> 50th Precinct - the Bronx | |
Somewhere, a mile or so and hours away, this had been a vigil. Somewhere, a mile or so and hours away, this had been peaceful and solemn, impassioned and teary speeches delivered as close to the chalk outlines still on the ground as the police line would allow. As these things are wont to go, the end of the vigil turned somewhat spontaneously into a march, trailing down the streets of Riverdale until the growing crowd has fetched up here. This station is not currently on fire, though the riot police are tense and agitated as if it was, having heard dire reports of a cop car or two in flames somewhere in the Lower East Side, several precinct windows shattered in Harlem -- the cops here now are alert and terrified lest a car or window suffer injury here as well. Right now, though, it's just increasingly agitated chanting as the mostly-young, mostly-mutant crowd hurls nothing stronger than Angry Words at the line of riot shields. The thrum of motorcycles en bloc does not quite drown out the noise of the crowd. Ion... has recently been somewhere in Harlem. But now he's pulling up at the edge of the crowd, easily recognizable on his custom chopper with its WIRED license plate, black strip of cotton laid over his Mongrels patch on his cut. He's killing his engine, leaning over his handlebars to offer a dap to one young woman, nod his thanks to the condolences another man is offering. "{We been fueling y'all up}," he's telling one unidentifiable person swathed head to toe in black. "Hella coffee in the saddlebags. Help yourselfs." He is not, currently, availing himself of coffee -- just taking a quick stock of the many cops as he hops off his bike. "Shit," he's saying to his companions, now, "even more than down at the 7th." Tian-shin's ride is not nearly so (in)famous--at least, not very likely to this particular crowd--but the black dragon on the red vintage Yamaha Bolt is distinctive in its own way. The rider herself is all in black, her still-new vest similarly worn in mourning, her hair braided and coiled flat for the helmet she's shedding now. Her eyes search the gathered protesters, and whatever she was looking for she evidently finds, because she relaxes just a little after doing so and only nods her assent to Ion's assessment. "Friends don't let friends protest without backup." She's eyeing the police now, her expression blank but her gaze cold and contemptuous. "Wonder how long it'll be before they call for backup." B's sleek blue-and-silver hoverbike looks like it belongs in Tron moreso than on the streets of New York. It's cruising low to the ground today to stay in formation with her pack, a noticeable glow humming in the place wheels ought to be. She's pulling off her extremely shark-toothed helmet and unlatching both her saddlebags to give the black bloc kids easier access as they start distributing the coffee. There are a pair of small jewel-bright scarab-beetle drones perched on her handlebars and one of them is taking off, higher into the air to flit down the line of cops. Her lips have curled into a very small smile as she looks over at a sign someone is holding high above the rest: "WE LIKE OUR COPS HOT 🔥" with a blown-up photograph of the Seventh Precinct in flames four years ago. "We could probably make it quicker." Nick's old Harley Fatboy is a veritable Theseus's Motorcycle, but he keeps up just fine even if he's slower to dismount, favoring his bandaged right arm. He accepts his condolences with quiet murmured gratitude, though he's clearly not up for very much more than that and likely grateful no one is demanding that. He follows B's sightline to the sign, a growl thrumming low in his chest as his ears press back. "He was just trying to keep other people safe, too." Then, quieter, "I guess that's the part they're really afraid of, anyway. Just hard to tell when the pigs are terrified of everything." "They scared of every damn thing," Ion agrees, "but they sure as hell most scared on us when we together." He's got a thermos of his own in the cupholder -- no coffee, but the yerba mate in it is strong as hell. He's leaning against his saddle as he sips at it, eyes flickering over the crowd. "Shit, girl, this crowd we probably ain't even need to. Homegirl there," he's nodding towards a young woman with a large afro, fist high in the air, "she help start this chapter of BYP with him. That kid --" a large and very shaggy person who could easily be a Cousin Itt impersonator, "Splatoon pull out a Purifier beatdown and get to safety. Those boys," hook gesturing to a knot of Black men offering water out to the crowd, "sing choir with him and cops kill they pastor's wife once on a time." His hook drops, tapping idly against his bike, and his teeth bare in a fierce grin as he watches the cans of coffee circulating the crowd. "{Could go on, but, fuck, everybody love coffee.}" Tian-shin sips from her own thermos--on any other night, it would probably be tea, but she doesn't look likely to turn in anytime soon. "I thought I had an idea how much love and work he poured into community before riding with him." She swallows, gripping her thermos tight. "Now, I think...it's probably way more than I'll ever know. I won the manifesting circumstances lottery, but I genuinely cannot imagine how many people he's personally welcomed into our community, and in how many ways." "He did not need that job at Evolve. Our business has been paying out plenty for a few years now but he didn't want to leave there because there were always so many new people in town who could really use the friendly face." B pulls herself up -- boots glowing briefly as she lifts several feet into the air to see over the crowd before settling back down on her handlebars. Where her drone is circling above it has started playing music, brash and loud: Who in here tryna start a riot? which meets from (riotous) approval from the crowd. Someone has shaken up a nitro latte can, spritzed foam all over the riot shields nearest them -- a truly vicious assault that is immediately met with the hard edge of a riot shield and the swinging of batons. "See," B is kind of idly hefting a coffee can in one hand, "the answer to that is always the cops." "It wasn't even just his face, you know?" Nick snorts, ears finally pricking back up. "Though even I can't beat that smile and I got a lot of smile going on." It does not look very much like a smile when Nick bares all his teeth and stares down his muzzle at the cops. "But the freaks who've been catching the most hate out there, who can't imagine how they're ever gonna have a life again? They walk into Evolve and see this big Black squid guy who reads minds -- and he's thriving, and he sees them. Shit. Not anymore." He shakes his head, his hackles rising and ears pressing back at the swing of the first baton. When I say 'Brooklyn, stand up', B's drone is prompting, you better just fix your posture-- Nick straightens to his full--intimidating if not very practical--height of seven feet and howls. | |
