Logs:Rambling

Rambling
Dramatis Personae Dawson, Helen, Steve
In Absentia	2020-08-26 "Guess there's folks on both sides looking for an open war."
Location Central Park - The Ramble
It's quiet out in the Ramble, early in the morning; not yet as hot as it will be later, not yet as busy as it will be later. Dawson is perched up on a large rock that borders one of the many winding paths through the woodland -- it puts him at about head-height overlooking the infrequent joggers or dog walkers that come through. He is neither -- in khakis, neatly pressed pale green short-sleeved button down, he certainly does not look dressed for exercise. The binoculars hung from a sturdy strap around his neck (or his mechanical arm, painted in fine detail with black-speckled beige feathering, a brighter flash of yellow on the inner arm) gives some clue as to his early morning interests out here -- though just at the moment he isn't actually looking for any birds at all. (Too bad for his inattention, too -- a ruby-throated hummingbird has just darted nearby to feed from some trumpet vine.) Instead, half-turned to one side, hand resting on his small knapsack to keep it from sliding off the rock and clocking any passersby below, he's frowning deep at his companion. "I think it's just going to get worse, you know? Some kid got killed out in Seattle last night. It probably only didn't happen here because Ion and his people --" His hand tightens around a thermos (matte green, it's decorated with an expansive-canopied banyan tree, thickly rooted) resting on his knee. "But I feel like that's just a powder keg waiting to spark, too." Perched beside Dawson on the rock, Steve looks slightly more likely to break out into spontaneous exercise, dressed in a heather blue athletic t-shirt, quick-dry convertible pants (unconverted!), and black combat boots, his iconic shield slung across his back and a pair of his own binoculars around his neck. "It's unfortunately not surprising, for bigots to lash out," he says, frowning, too. "Do you suppose -- I guess that's also bigots lashing out -- there's likely to be...official reprisal? Not just to the Brotherhood, I mean, if they can be found. To mutants in general." Dressed in a dark purple and gold sleeveless shirt that ends an inch above her navel (with KNOX emblazoned in small letters over her heart) and a matching pair of pants, Helen's pace along the path is a steady, smooth lope, the kind that comes from endless practice. Her eyes are not on the Bramble and its many trees, despite their beauty but rather fixed on the path in front of her with only occasional glances up. Music plays from the earphones in her ears, just barely audible a few feet away, and sweat is dripping down her neck and hair. Her jogging takes her past the rock that Dawson and Steve are sitting on, only a brief flick of brown eyes to them before resuming their focus on the path in front of her. It's a testament to her concentration that it takes her about fifteen feet for what she saw to slowly process what she saw, coming to a halt with the kind of abrupt movement that Loony Toons would no doubt have used a screeching sound as the background music for. She spins around, hand coming up to wipe sweat out off her face, eyes widening slightly as they flick back and forth -- Dawson, Steve, shield, Steve, shield, Dawson, shield, Steve. "Officially? I don't know." Dawson shakes his head, eyes reflexively tracking the jogger's path down the path and away from them. "There's already so many rumblings about cracking down on mutant terrorism -- law and order. I think it's about to get a lot worse for a lot of us. There's a line between protesting and --" His jaw clenches, his breath pushed out hard. "I just don't know. "The cops are as likely to add to this body count as any angry --" A small hesitation. "Ununiformed bigot. I don't know whether to count that as official or unofficial. And I don't know how we push back without exacerbating all of this." "That's just what I mean." Steve bites his lower lip. "Politicians and law enforcement were pretty ready to brand even the most pacifistic mutant activists as 'terrorists' before this, and now..." He shakes his head, also watching Helen as she approaches, his bandaged right hand tightening slightly, then relaxing with a fleeting wince. "Guess there's folks on both sides looking for an open war." When Helen stops he sits up straighter, reaching for his shield and then stopping short when all she does is stare. He turns the gesture into an only slightly awkward wave. "Ah, good morning there, Miss." Stepping closer to the rock, Helen's cheeks are reddened - though from a blush or from exertion, she'll never tell - and she raises a hand in a wave back that transitions awkwardly into reaching into her ears to remove her headphones. "Hello, Mr. Rogers--Cap-Captain Rogers." Her eyes flick to Dawson, and she nods once at him, respectfully, apologetically. "I'm sorry to interrupt; I don't mean to go all fan-girl on you." She stops about six feet from the rock, picking up one leg and then the other, stretching them out behind her. "I just-I wanted to thank you for what you did at the museum last year. Some of my co-workers were there that night, and... well." She takes a deep drink from the light grey Nalgene bottle she's holding in one hand, finishing off the remaining water with a gulp. "Yeah. I just feel like fanning the flames like that --" Dawson breaks off as Helen approaches, his own cheeks flushing and his eyes darting to Steve. He nods hello, lifts his thermos, popping its lid and taking a small sip. He sucks his cheeks slightly inward, gnawing on their insides as Helen speaks. "See, and that's the kind of catch-22 situation we're stuck in, though. You know it was the same after that night -- less stark but still an increase in hate crimes. Even when we're the victims, even when we're helping. The number of people calling for Jax's head back then --" His brows knit. "Or calling for blood now. I don't know what the answer is, though, when they want us dead either way." Steve's eyes go slightly wide. This was perhaps not the greeting he was expecting. He's tense only for a moment, though, the change hardly noticeable from a distance, his shoulders relaxing again when Dawson rolls with it. "I did what I could, Miss." He nods at Dawson's addition. "I didn't do half as much to help as Jax Holland, and they still tried to blame him." His head dips. "I haven't got any answers, either, even if this were my struggle to draw lines in. I'm just worried, and wishing there were something I could do." "Jax Holland?" Helen's brow furrows, eyebrows coming together in a look of confusion. "But wasn't he..." she murmurs to herself, quietly, then shakes her head once, quickly. She wipes her hand over her forehead, shaking off most of the sweat with a sharp snapping movement of her hand by her side. Her teeth worry at her bottom lip, attention flickering back and forth between the two men as they talk. A cough works its way out of her throat, hand coming up to cover her mouth, followed by another, and another. She pivots slightly, politely turning away from the two men as she coughs -- and then turns back, taking a soothing sip from her suddenly half-full water bottle. "You did a lot. And please thank him for me as well." "A terrorist? A murderer? Maybe just so hopelessly incompetent he killed a dozen people, nearly including his best friend?" Dawson's brows lift. "Jackson Holland has done more for us than most people alive and the thanks he gets for it is an endless stream of slander when the government isn't actively trying to tar and feather him." Steve's brows furrow deeply, and he is drawing an indignant breath to speak, but let it back out. "He's a good man," is what he does finally say, his voice gentle. "He saved my life, too. I --" He breaks off, staring at Helen's water bottle and blinking furiously. Gives his head a quick shake. "He's one of the folks I'm real worried about catching hell over that whole RNC business." "He's an visible mutant in the press." Helen points out, taking another sip. "Considering the government's -- society at large's -- opinions of us...." She raises one hand and drops it in a shrug that makes a sloshing sound from her bottle. "I heard lots about how you helped - in the news, from co-workers. I didn't hear anything about him other than that he probably did it, intentionally or not. So when the public looks around for a mutant to blame, he's really quite convenient." Her lips twist into something related to, but certainly not, a smile, and her empty hand tucks one thumb into her waistband, idly. "Especially when they have trouble catching the people who did do it." "Thank goodness it was hundreds of miles away or they'd probably have drummed up some reason to have him in handcuffs already. Still --" Dawson's jaw tightens. He takes a longer gulp of his drink, closing the cap again with a snap. His eyes dart back to Helen, his lips thinning. "Even past any individual ones of us they're already using the rest of the convention to -- stir everyone up practically into a war. I don't think it's leading anywhere good." Steve blinks. Blinks again. Looks at Helen's water bottle. Back up at her, lips parting in a small, silent 'ah'. "The organization claimed credit, and I'm sure they can't believe someone as publicly prominent as Jax could be -- I don't even want to say it in case someone overhears out of context. But..." His right hand tries to curl into fist. Relaxes. "It's not about what they believe, not really. I didn't have the stomach to stick it out through all of last night's speakers, but what I saw -- yeah. They'll milk these deaths for all they're worth and more." Helen flashes Steve a wry grin and shakes her water bottle once, taking a sip of it and winking at him. Her expression becomes serious once more, however, and she nods at Dawson. "I have to agree with you there. And the, uh, organization... they must have known what the response would be. How could they not have known?" She shakes her head. "Just throwing more gasoline on the fire. Maybe that was the point. But it's people like us who are going to get caught in the crossfire." Dawson's eyes skate aside to Steve with an uncertain lift of brows at that wink. His next sip is longer. "I don't know. Maybe that was the point. I don't know who open war would benefit, but there are people who've been agitating for it for -- a while now. Maybe --" The breath he pushes out is heavy. "Or maybe they just didn't care, if they made their statement. Recruitment for them, and the rest of us deal with the fallout." Steve meets Dawson's glance, his own expression carefully opaque. "Maybe. I can't imagine that the point was just taking out a few politicians, certainly. I can imagine even less that they'll be replaced with ones more amenable to mutant liberation --" His lips press together thinly. "Though I'm not at all sure what that even means, to the Brotherhood of Mutants. Not through all the propaganda." "Dictators often come cloaked in the guise of revolutionaries." Helen tilts her head to one side and then the other, a muted popping sound coming along with a wince. "That's been true for thousands of years, all over the world. The Sumerians, the Babylonians, the Romans, Persians, Caesar... I have no reason to expect it to be different for the Brotherhood." Her teeth glint briefly as she chews on her bottom lip. "But what can we do?" "I don't know. Half the time," Dawson admits with a dip of his head, a small flush, "I'm so caught up in just trying to get through the days, I don't even really know what liberation means to me." The tilt of his head is small, birdlike, a slight furrow to his brow. "Sorry, what?" He draws his knapsack into his lap, tucking his thermos away into it and zipping it closed. "I just mean -- we already have a dictator. Do you think -- the Brotherhood of Mutants is -- I don't know. Trying to rule us?" "If I were to believe what I read online," Steve says, then hastily adds, "and I assure you I do not, I'd think the Brotherhood wanted to murder all humans. That seems unlikely to me." He arches one eyebrow at Helen. "That also seems unlikely, but like I said I'm kind of vague on what they do want. Maybe they're as unsure as you are." He says to Dawson. "Maybe they just feel they have to do something." Helen takes another sip of her water, slowly, then shakes her head. "I understand the impulse. I feel like I need to do something, even though I don't know what, to try and... blunt what I'm scared is coming. I've lived through one revolution, and though it turned out well enough in the end, it wasn't pleasant to live through. And I think you're right. I think the one that's coming will be much, much worse." "You've lived --" Dawson's frown grows, his gaze fixing briefly on Helen. "Huh." He shakes his head abruptly, eyes dipping back to the path below them. "Sorry, I -- haven't meant to keep you from your run with all this -- doom." He stands up -- briefly kind of looming on the tall rock -- hitching his backpack up to a shoulder and offering Steve his hand. Clearly not for leverage -- the other man hardly needs it -- but in the next moment the men are no longer on the tall rock but down on the path below, a blip of motion too fast to track. "Kind of afraid of that too, but -- for all our sakes, let's hope you're wrong." Steve's eyes go very wide at the mention of living through revolutions, his brows gathering in confusion. Perhaps he would have asked, but that Dawson reached for him them. He places his hand quite unselfconsciously in Dawson's, and even starts to push himself up. He's clearly unsurprised by the teleportation, but does still sway in place and blink several times when they reappear down on the path. "I should start heading for work anyway, if we want to catch a bite before I clock in." He nods politely to Helen. "It was a pleasure talking to you, Miss." "I hope I'm wrong too." Helen blinks in surprise when the two men appear in front of her, body tensing, but her smile returns quickly enough. "I'm sorry for barging into your conversation. Please pass along my thanks to Jax for his help at the Gala as well." She nods her head in a little bow-like motion, once to Dawson, and once to Steve. "Have a good day, gentlemen. All things considered." She flashes the two men another smile, then puts the headphones back in her ear and slowly starts her jog once more down the path.