(no subject)
Dusk falls over the docks, cloaking in evening the seedy, salty accumulation of ramshackle and rickety buildings and the sinister loom of many, many warehouses. The streetlamps flicker on, flaring light over the whispers of mist and sea-spray that obscure the streets.
As evenings go in this part of Manhattan, this one is pleasant. The air smells more of salt than of rotting fish. Emerging from a dimly lit building that bears some suggestion of being a thuggy sort of bar, a tall, slim figure steps. The figure has the vague suggestion of a female shape at the curve of hip and the swell of chest, although her hair and face are both obscured by the dark hood she has up: black zippered hoodie, long black trousers, flat-soled black boots. A theme! Her pale hands are clasped tightly behind her back, and she walks quite erect out onto the narrow cityside sidewalk.
One might miss it if one isn't sharp but across the way a rope hangs down from the side of one of the buildings that all the dock workers will pass by when they come to work on the ships in the dock yard. At the end of the rope which hangs out at an oddly straight angle is.. well nothing. But yet the rope moves as if something was attached to it and stranger still. If one is sharp enough to see it. The grafity that normally covers the wall of upper story of the warehouse is being systematically replaced. The chaotic tags and hate have been painted over by one huge work. Its mostly done at this point "Stand and be defi" it says so far in large block letters. Not quite finished yet but no one visible is there painting it.
It is a quiet night. There are few here, and those who are here to do business are largely focused on their own affairs. In the dim, near-dark of evening, there is plenty of room for an invisible man to paint the side of a warehouse. But for a woman whose business in the docks is currently in abeyance, stray motion may draw attention. Especially one whose gaze constantly and paranoiacally sweeps for the unusual or threatening. She pauses in her long, even stride, with her head tipped slightly to one side. As she glances up, light from a streetlamp catches the pale skin of cheek, jaw and throat, despite what meager protection from identification a black hood may offer. For a moment, she watches the painting progress in silence, musing on messages inscribing themselves in the dark with her hands still folded behind her.
It takes time, quite a while actually to write the word defiant in large block letters on the side of a building where it can be seen for blocks. It's quite fascinating to see as well. The paint just seems to fade into existence on the wall like the wall is bleeding out the color. The artist works in silence except for the occasional clank of a spray paint can. That drops from seemingly nowhere when the paint runs out.
With mild interest, Ellen watches a spray can hit the ground, roll a little ways, and come to a halt in the gutter. Then she steps out of the light, letting the darkening evening swallow her, and calls into the night: "Defy what?"
Laughter comes from the night, deep joyful laughter of someone who isn't quite right. But instead of words answering the questions a new spray-tag starts to appear at the bottom corner of the picture, like a signature on a work of art. At first it's the symbol for Omega, which he hopes he will be able to make infamous soon.
Lifting her eyebrows invisibly in the dark, Ellen sets her weight back on her heels and studies the new symbol. "Of the ultimate," she says, her cool voice projected to carry. "--By the ultimate?" The question drifts a moment, and her next question is flavored by her frown: "That's not Jason up there, is it?" What an odd assumption to make.
The rope moves and there is a zipping sound. Then more jingling and clanking of cans. The mystery artist calls out, Humans where the alpha, mutants are the omega. We are the next step in the upgrade! The voice calls out from somewhere. "I defy anyone who stands in my way!" the male voice says and chuckles, "That's the great thing about power! You can use it to change things for the better. One voice at a time."
"Really." Dry humor informs the paired syllables. Ellen narrows a look up into the dark, attempting to track the voice's source by sound where there is nothing to see. "Do you think so?"
The latter for a fire escape comes down off the side of the building and then there are more noises of things being jostled about as the artist climbs down the fire latter. He yells back, "We are at a time of great change! It can be a social change or it can be a change of violent force. Its up to the humans what way it happens. In the end we all know its coming. That's why humans fear mutants they fear the unknown future. Take it from me I know all about being the unknown! "
"Mutants are known," Ellen answers, a ripple of disdain in the call of her chill voice. Her head cants, pale gaze flicking to the fire escape beneath her hood. "As a people they are stronger. That is why they are feared. They are death, now or tomorrow."
There is a SPLOSH and a bag goes sinking into the river. Its only visible a moment as it arcs away from the docks before it hits the water. Then the voice starts talking again, "Mutants represent the ultimate unknown! When we are children we are taught the sky is blue, fire burns and that little Tommy can't really turn you to stone by crossing his eyes at you. Now days, little Tommy has a fair chance of that being true! We are, in our very nature, breaking all the rules! " the voice says then it becomes quiet again.
"The transmutation of flesh to stone is scientifically unlikely," observes Ellen Dramstadt, molecular biologist. Her hands still clasped behind her back, she tips her head in a bow of acknowledgment. "The mechanism of transformation between living tissue and inorganic matter has occurred in nature, but I do not think it probable to extend beyond the morphic field of a single individual."
The voice, coming from behind the woman somewhere says, "You speak like a scientist but you slum like a girl looking for trouble. To use the old line, what's a girl like you doing in a dump like this?" the voice asks less than ten feet away behind her somewhere but not overly close.
She turns slowly, pivoting on the heel of her boot. Her shoulders and spine bear the stiff tension of a person who, by habit and necessity, does not want people behind her. Her hands unfold from their clasp, but only to fold again in a new one, before her rather than behind. "Perhaps I am waiting for someone." Ellen's voice is mild. Bland. "And you, with your revolution in graffiti. Do you think words will win this war?"
"A wise man once said by the time you feel the warmth of the sun on your face it is already risen. On the same note the war is already won, we simply need to make the world see this is true. I don't plan on winning the war with words. I plan on starting the revolution. Wars are messy, wasteful things and should be used only when reason, trickery, poisons and assassinations have failed."
"Reason has long since failed. There is no one to trick. And small scale death is of use only with a target." Slowly, Ellen turns away again, loosing her hands to scrub her palms against her hips as she starts to walk. "This war is already under way, young one. Do as you will, but you will show the world nothing with writing on a wall."
Brave of her to turn his back to him. David is so enjoying using his power he does something foolhardy He steps up behind her and whispers, "What would you suggest?" before trying to move away quickly.
Ellen whirls with startling speed, not superhuman but one of honed reflexes, and snatches at the air immediately behind her with swiftly grasping fingers. Dislodged in the suddenness of her motion, her hood falls from her face, revealing the pallor of her sharply angled features and the gleam of fine blond hair in the dim light. Her lips curl back from her teeth in a snarl, her pale eyes flashing as they search the dark. Her voice cold, whipping sharp, she snaps, "Death. Fear. Strength. They understand nothing less."
Slipping barely away the young mutant says, "They understand greed as well. Don't forget that one." The voice says moving away a little more and circling around her, "So I know you don't I? You where in the news! Who where you again?" he asks as he circles staying on the move.
"I am death." Her voice still cold, Ellen stares with quietly contained wrath into the dark, tracking him by sound with a few sharp jerks of her head. "Yours, if you are foolish enough to notify the authorities that you have seen me."
"Why on earth would I do that? We are after all fighting the same war. You know people with powers that would be good for battle. I'm just an artist. If I had more power I would be right there with you. But words and art are my only weapons." Then he pauses and says, "Sad I know."
Lifting her hood to again shield her face and hair, Ellen pauses with her hands on the fabric to give him a thin, weary smile. It flickers across her expression swiftly, gone after merest instant, and the pause is over, and she finishes resuming her hood. "You are unseen, boy. If you do not think that is a weapon, you are a fool."
Kicking a old bear bottle around on the pavement the young mutant says, "Well, I mean sure I could assasinate people and stuff but I mean, who really does that? Is that what we have come down to acting like cowardly ninjas sneaking in killing people and sneaking out? If we are the supirior form of life we should be able to wage a war without having to do that kind of thing. Honor, justice, all those great ideals. Not so much?" David asks as the bottle appears skids then dissapears for a moment when he kicks it only to reappear and go skidding again.
Ellen is silent a moment, still as a gargoyle in a sweatshirt. Then she slowly shakes her head. Rather than answer his substantive points, she only says, "You are very young." Then she starts walking again, hands resuming their clasp behind her and gaze tipped down to better shield her face.
Footsteps follow and so does the voice, "Young and energetic!" He promises. "I am totally willing to accept that I have no clue what is going on and that I need to know more. Like, hook me up, what's your number? We should totally hang out. You can tell me about killing people and I can tell you about art. Alternatively we can do other things if you want." He says, "But this is weird. In one day I met Tony Stark billionaire tool of the man and then you. Life is saying get in the game you know. I was actually thinking about hunting down Magneto if he was in New York still but its going to take some work to get the information I need to find him."
"I am not giving you my number." This much Ellen seems quite definite about, her footsteps continuing at an even pace over the pavement. Then she halts. Every muscle in her slender frame seems to draw tight and go still all at once. "What business have you with him?"
"None, really. I'm just hoping to talk to him. He's like the most hated mutant on earth. Any man that hated either knows a lot of things I want to know or is a complete and total lunatic. I want to see which one it is. I'll bet, from the stories. He's a very smart man and I could learn a lot from him."
Ellen's hands fall away from their clasp to curl into fists at her sides. Her nostrils flare with her exhalation, her chin lifting with the edge of defiant pride. "He is a great man," she grits out in a low, darkening voice, heavy with suppressed emotion. "With better things to do with his time than satisfy your curiosity."
"I'm sure he does. But if he cares at all for mutants like they say he does then he would take the time now wouldn't he? If we don't know history then the future is doomed. I want to be part of the future and we need a strong foundation in the past to build it. Someone like him, someone with the power, the will and drive to change things. If he can do it on his own more power to him. I'll sit back and watch but hey, I might be useful so I thought I would offer. Well, have fun with your killing. I'll just be on my way. "
Ellen holds herself in stillness for a long moment following. Then she exhales a breath in a hiss past her teeth, and starts walking again. Her shoulders seem stiffer than before, the downward turn of her head almost sullen. She does not say goodbye.
They will meat again. David is sure of it. He can see things picking up for him. Opportunity is knocking. He's not sure what he is destined for but he knows it will happen soon. So he lets her go having faith that it will come. But someone really needs her Prozac!
Idealism is so often the province of the young. Ellen is old.