4/16/08 - Northstar
It is late afternoon, and the heat of an early and unexpectedly unseasonable warmth has driven a great many New Yorkers outside to enjoy it while they can. Joggers, strollers, tourists, pedestrian commuters -- the paths around the reservoir are crowded with them, each carrying on in their own inviolable, impenetrable bubble of personal space that is the most jealously guarded possession of any New Yorker.
The news explains the presence of the NYPD, who are out in force today. Uniformed patrolmen stroll along the same paths that entertain civilians, some matched with canine units that look appropriately ferocious in between wistful glances as the lake. Det. Rossi, in civilian attire, is less noticeable, if hardly less alert. He leans against the railing around the lake, arms braced on the concrete, his attention split impartially between ducks and denizens. Of the two, the former are more logical.
Northstar is dressed for the day, in cargo shorts, a t-shirt, sneakers and a short-tailed open shirt, all in various shades of brown and tan. He has a messenger bag over one shoulder and a small digital camera in hand. He looks back up the path, standing a little off to the side, near Rossi and snaps a picture in first one direction and then the other. Rather than focusing on the water or the trees or the surrounding buildings, he seems to be photographing the paths and the layout thereof. His expression is faintly distracted and he lowers the camera, murmuring, "Call it a half-mile on that side...."
...And a full-cop on /this/ side. The photography, harmless in itself, attracts Rossi's attention, and he turns his back to the lake, settling his hips against the barrier to consider Northstar. Picture taking. There are no monuments, true. However. "Tourist?" he asks without preamble, his baritone carved by a Brooklyn accent. His badge is hidden; his gun, tucked in its holster, is safely hidden by his jacket. No need for either. He wears pure, unadulterated NYPD arrogance.
Northstar blinks as the stranger addresses him and he turns to give Rossi a once-over look. "Nope. Resident. Well, for the last couple of days at least." He looks back over the water and then back to Rossi. He grins faintly and says good-naturedly, "So am I missing a highlight or something?"
"The ducks," Rossi says with great succinctness, "like Magneto." Goddamn ducks. He directs a flatly disapproving gaze at the waterfowl, which are gathered rather hopefully near their end of the lake, and lifts his chin towards Northstar's camera. "Why the pictures?"
Northstar blinks again. "Um... Magneto?" He clears his throat and while he doesn't take a step back, he does draw back a bit in his body language, giving Rossi a look that suggests the man might be a little crazy. "Magneto the mutant guy? And the pictures are for me. I run. I like to have my routes mapped out ahead of time. And might put them on a blog."
Only terrorists take pictures. Or feed ducks. Rossi does not leap immediately to suspicion, there being several steps in between and it being, moreover, a damned hot day. "Magneto the mutant guy," he confirms lazily, folding his arms over the creak of leather. His coat flares open at the gesture, briefly exposing still more leather underneath: holster and straps. "Pezhead. Tall, old, likes blondes, maybe an alcoholic, has a temper like a drunk badger. Blows things up. That's the one."
Northstar sees the the holster and straps and he says, "Ah." Combined with the man's brusque nature, that probably means cop. He says, "Um... you know Magneto? Like, personally?" His expression is dubious at best. "That's interesting."
"You live here long enough, you probably will too," Rossi says uncharitably. There is a reason he is not normally invited to greet newcomers to the city. He leans back again, sinking his hips more firmly into the concrete bulwark against the reservoir's slimy sides, and half-lids his eyes over the suggestion: "You might want to hold off on taking pictures of your jogging route. At least until after the Pope leaves. Everything's a bit touchy until Monday."
With suddenly wide eyes, Jean-Paul says, "Oh! I didn't know ... er ... I'm sorry? No harm intended." He looks down at the camera and puts it in his bag quickly, locking down the flap as though that proves a point about his willingness to stay out of trouble. "The pope, huh? Great, he can tell us who isn't 'ordered' this week."
Rossi, in the act of scratching the bridge of his nose, pauses. Green eyes sliver behind black lashes. "Say what?"
Northstar shrugs. "Ordered. Disordered. Whomever the Church doesn't care for this week. Don't you read encyclicals?" He doesn't seem to notice the warning sign of Rossi's narrowed eyes. "Personally, I'm not a big fan of the whole idea. But I guess he serves a purpose for some people."
"Not a Catholic?" Rossi guesses, and his mouth slants towards a crooked half-smile that softens some of the harshness of his features. He shifts his weight, turning on a foot to against the barrier again: elbows on concrete, hands loosely clasped, the cobwebbed hatchwork of thin scars pale against swarthy skin. "I don't read much of anything except the sports page. They demote us for literacy, in the NYPD."
Northstar shakes his head. "I was raised Catholic. Well, you know, Christmas Catholic." He laughs at the bit about the sports page and says, smirking, "See, you can make a joke like that. I wouldn't dare."
Rossi says, not unkindly, "I can make a joke about anything. It's got nothing to do with being the target. It's got more to do with being a shithead." He is, at least, honest about it. His shoulders rise, hunching a bit as he sinks his weight into his heels, and he casts a passing glance at a wobbling bicyclist -- disaster imminent? No. Moving on! -- before glancing back at Northstar with a mild, "Me, too." Ex-Catholic, that is. He untangles a hand to sketch a two-fingered crucifix.
Northstar shakes his head again, following Rossi's glance. He winces faintly, "Some people shouldn't be allowed to wear spandex." He looks back at Rossi and his eyebrows arch as he asks, "So what do you do, anyway? As a cop I mean? What's your, um, beat?" The question is a little wary and he eyes the man sideways.
By way of answer, Rossi reaches into his jacket and produces a black leather wallet, frayed at the edges from long abuse. He thumbs out a small white card, which he passes on to Northstar. Det. Christopher Rossi. NYPD. 19th Precinct. Homicide / Mutant Affairs. "The weird and the dead," he says, leaving it to the other man to identify which group classifies as which. "It's a barrel of monkeys on a first date."
Northstar takes the card and reads it. He freezes momentarily, holding the card up and then casually pockets it. "Oh wow. Must be ...challenging." His tone is studiously neutral. "So what brings you out this way, Detective? Pope patrol? Or are you hunting somebody?"
Pope patrol. Rossi's mouth twitches; the smile denied by his lips slides through his eyes instead, briefly warming their smoky color. "Not a bad way to put it," he congratulates, scratching at his nose again before straightening somewhat. Enough to remove his elbows from the railing, at least, and replace them with his hands instead. "Everyone's on duty until the visit's over. Place is crawling with Feds. Couldn't fart within a hundred feet of the guy without a sniper taking your head off. Gotta love a good dog and pony show."
Northstar nods and his grin gets a little more sardonic as he nods his thanks. He snorts and says, "And how much are we paying for that, I wonder?" He shakes his head. There is a momentary pause as he looks out over the water. He glances sideways at Rossi and then says, "Hey, would you mind answering a question? Kind of an inappropriate question?"
"Boxers," Rossi says, and regards Northstar blandly.
Northstar rolls his eyes and snorts. "Like I couldn't have guessed that." He pauses again, obviously ordering his thoughts and the way he is approaching the question and then says, "So, I have to ask, as a person who is a bystander to the whole thing, why Mutant Affairs? You dislike them enough to want to keep an eye on them professionally?"
Rossi -- does not glance down at his pants, /like he couldn't have guessed/ -- but there is the barest flicker of his eyes in that exercise of self-discipline, and his mouth tightens a bit before relaxing into more sardonic lines. "Dislike's got nothing to do with it. You really are from out of town," he marvels, rolling his head to stretch his neck. Bones snap. Crackle. Pop. He grimaces. "Mutant Affairs investigates crimes that involve mutants. Not only crimes that mutants cause. Mutant victims, mutant witnesses, all that shit."
With an expression that is extremely dubious. His voice is level as he says, "Sure, but putting the same heading for all of them sets the tone for how the government and most of us think of them. Not a crime, but a mutant crime. Not a victim but a mutant victim." He shrugs and says, "It's pretty indicative of a problem." His voice quickens as he speaks, as though he's warming up to his topic. "And that doesn't even count the idea that you represent the most obvious form of intelligence gathering and domestic security dealing with mutants."
With an expression that is extremely dubious, Jean-Paul turns away to look at the path. His voice is level as he says, "Sure, but putting the same heading for all of them sets the tone for how the government and most of us think of them. Not a crime, but a mutant crime. Not a victim but a mutant victim." He shrugs and says, "It's pretty indicative of a problem." His voice quickens as he speaks, as though he's warming up to his topic. "And that doesn't even count the idea that you represent the most obvious form of intelligence gathering and domestic security dealing with mutants."
The detective chuffs a small snort, turning his own gaze back to the lake while a hand rakes absent-mindedly through short-cropped hair. Grizzled black, as it happens; white at the temples gleams in the sunlight, lending him an utterly false dignity. "Typical party line," he congratulates Jean-Paul. "You never had to work out a police force in a city that's crawling with people who can throw SUVs. Think it through, brain trust. Cop on the street gets called on a bodega robbery. Shots fired. He could get killed. First thing he sees is a guy glowing green. What's your average person going to do?"
Northstar shrugs and says, "Not assume that the green glowing guy is automatically a bad guy?" He turns back to Rossi and says, "Don't get me wrong, Detective, I'm not saying you are a bad guy. I'm just saying that you are working within a framework that is designed, in the short term, to marginalize mutants and in the long term, to make removing all of their civil rights or even the right to exist more palatable to the American people."
"Out here in the real world," Rossi says with irritation ruffling his dark baritone, "/actual/ people automatically aim their guns at what looks like the most visible threat. Mutants get better protection and better justice with Mutant Affairs around than they did when it was just cops who didn't have a clue dealing with people randomly exploding slime in the middle of an interview. MA knows enough to deal with special needs and special powers. Might want to actually watch it working before you decide it's not."
Northstar folds his arms over his chest and says, "Maybe it does work. But putting a bandaid over a severed artery works too. For a second or two." He doesn't seem to shrink away from that irritation and his expression is stormy, both expression and body language closed. "And I don't say that there isn't any good with the bad. It's just a dead end, socially. And a dangerous one mutants."
Rossi's face closes, its angles hardening, then relaxes: back to indifference, though the cool gaze is watchful enough. "It's a free country," he says, straightening to shove his hands into his pants pockets. "Enjoy your opinions. Some mutants'd agree with you. There're a lot of others that won't. You should stop taking stop-motion pictures and try looking at films instead. Shit moves on, dumbass." He lifts his chin, a sketchy farewell of sorts, and turns away to amble down the path, falling into step with a canine unit that promptly demands to smell his ass.
[Log ends]