July 1st:

Every.

Damn.

Time.

What part of peace did people not understand? It was not a difficult concept. Just don't be jerks to each other. Simple. Don't, for instance, stage a counter protest. Do not then throw rocks into the protest you are countering. Do not proceed to jeer and hurl more items at the police who step in to move you along. DO NOT use your mutation to retaliate, resulting in several injuries and a death. All of these are unacceptable.

Don't ignore you worried boyfriend ex-boyfriend's texts when you are a cop, and there is civil unrest.

Cafas hoisted himself onto a pay phone booth, accepting a megaphone from an officer at ground level. They had been going to draw straws for who got to make them self a target. Cafas had volunteered. He was pretty certain it was the only reason anyone in the 24th was being cooperative.

"Both parties, disperse immediately. You are currently in breach of your protest permits. Anyone with information on the mutant attack..."

Cafas dived off the phone booth, it exploded, it was all rather cinematic. Unfortunately, it wasn't cinema, so there was a hail of shrapnel bouncing off hastily raised riot shields. The X-man hit the ground, barely managing to roll rather than slide. There really hadn't been time for grace. He picked himself up as officers scrambled to form their line.

So, it was going to be like that.

Cafas picked his phone up from where it had clattered into the gutter. The case was scratched all to hell, but the phone undamaged. Still nothing. Cafas unlocked the phone as behind him orders were shouted.

I know you're mad, but I'm worried. Please reply.

It would have to do. Cafas turned, brushing off the torn shoulder of his uniform. His megaphone was nowhere in sight. He sighed at the telltale phwump of a tear gas canister being launched. Someone tossed him a gas mask. He pulled it over his face.

Well at least it's only a few among many... Could be a riot.

July 4th

The Jersey Turnpike. In the true Jersey spirit, it ran past industrial complexes and waste management facilities, under smog and over grass-covered mounds of trash, and spilled its offal onto the George Washington Bridge straight into Manhattan. On a typical day, it could take hours to get into NYC. Alternatives included the--

“All available units to the Lincoln tunnel,” crackled his shoulder radio.

Of course, if that was out, there was always the--

“Confirm that, dispatch? Lincoln or Holland?”

“Both,” came the clipped answer. No one near Calley reached up to their own radios to respond. George Washington Bridge had its own issues.

Three people were laying on the road in front of five hours of traffic. One of them was a shade of orange that clashed fantastically with her rose-print dress. One was holding up a homemade sign—something witty comparing traffic jams to the stalled progress of mutant rights legislation that he really didn't want to read, it was bad enough he had some of their anti-police chants running on repeat in his head--and if the kid's arms weren't starting to feel like lead by now, then that was some kind of mutation in its own right. The last girl was chewing gum and, Calley was certain, battling the local Pokemon gym from the safety and comfort of the cleared traffic lanes. She blew a pink bubble. It popped.

The joke went like this: how many mutants does it take to close down all traffic in and out of the city?

It would have been nice if the answer was in double digits, but no. Nine. Three each on both tunnels and the bridge. They could have done less, if they'd really wanted to show off. Calley had a feeling that some of them were just along for moral support.

The girl blew another bubble. It popped. The sound didn't leave the shimmering gray force field that neatly encapsulated all three protestors and a large swath of the central three lanes.

Today was going to be a long day.

>> I know you're mad, but I'm worried. Please reply.

Can't talk. Working. Calley typed back, a day or three after Cafas' message was first received. Feel free to break up with me again.

Days was in now way a unit of measurement Cafas would ever want to be using to measure the time between texting a beloved police officer and receiving a reply during so unstable a period as the country was going through. With the climbing death toll from protests, counter protests, and attacks thereon, it was all Cafas could do not to bombard the stupid shifter with about thirty texts per second with growing desperation in each. The feeling explained the haunting sound of ringtones in Odessa to a depth that empathy alone would never have scratched.

The tunnels were backed up. Traffic could have in theory turned around and filtered out. In practice, communicating that to a mile and a half of New York traffic jam per tunnel, and then finding the space to do it, was impossible. some colourful suggestions were being offered as ways to move the mutants along, but without some act of violence to actually justify them they couldn't reasonably be employed.

"I'm just saying, commissioner, It's a disaster waiting to happen." Cafas paused for a moment, staring at the force-field that was preventing him getting to the three roadblocks (and had prevented the front cars from doing the same). He made brief and angry eye contact with one of the youths within it. The commissioner continued to tell him that no further resources could or would be diverted for a nine person peaceful protest.

"I know nothing has happened yet, that's what I'm asking you to help us prevent." Angry yelling, so much angry yelling. "Well you did sign off on the deputation, and I am simply providing a strong recommendation from the field. I was not attempting to give you orders."

Cafas' phone buzzed against his ear. He was getting nowhere. It was just the sort of political and bureaucratic BS coming down the line that they'd been dealing with since they went legit. If it were down to Cafas, he'd have every inch of the traffic jams patrolled. Unfortunately, it was the cops in charge. "Fine. This is getting us nowhere, you must be busy. I'll let you go." Cafas hung up and resisted the urge to throw his phone at the nearest wall.

He had received a message though, hadn't he? The X-man activated the screen with nervous excitement. Had Calley finally come around?

>>Can't talk. Working. Feel free to break up with me again.

Well it was something at least. Cafas sighed and rolled his eyes, venting a little frustration at the sky. It was exactly the sort of petty nonsense he was used to from Calley. Snarky and dismissive. At least for once he'd earned it. The thought brought with it a fresh pang of guilt, and some heartbreak he thought he'd forgotten.

Thank you. You need anything? don't think we're getting anywhere over here without an Adapted.

Cafas sent off the text. He didn't expect a reply, really. he wanted one. He wanted things to just go back to normal between them. Minus the sex and dating, obviously, but Calley had been in his life too long for Cafas to comfortably let him go. At the very least he'd have liked to talk about it.

And I'd have to be dating you again for that.

There, a joke. Haha. It barely qualified, actually. Cafas regretted sending it, but a third message just seemed a bit needy so he could hardly take it back...

July 5th

Thank you.

Thank you for what? Seriously. It didn't mean anything if it wasn't for anything.

“You ******* traitor--”

Calley dug his knee into the man's back, and jerked a little harder on a blue-furred arm.

>> You need anything?

What would he need? Besides a little extra arm strength. If he could just—get this guy's wrists together--

“Why are you on their side? You think they're going to spare you, when they start rounding us up again? You're not better than me--”

“Let him go, you're hurting him, this is a peaceful protest--”

“Getting this all on camera. Hey. Hey cop. Turn a little this way, will you? Need to zoom in on your name and badge—there we go. Ladies and gentleman of the internet, I present Officer Swartz, Kapo Cat Cop. Got a ring to it, doesn't it? And here we have him in his native environment, brutalizing his own for the man--”

>> don't think we're getting anywhere over here without an Adapted

That, at least, he could agree with. He got the guy's wrists together, and slipped on the zip tie with practiced ease. Tightened it. Got his feet under himself, and dragged the blue fur ball to his feet.

One down.

>> And I'd have to be dating you again for that.

If you cheat on Ghost they will never find the body.

“And here we have the diligent Officer Swartz texting on duty. Sweet talking your girlfriend, Officer? Does she know what you do for a living? Will she be proud when this video reaches a million views?”

Calley slipped his phone back into his pocket. Then he waded back in. Another day, another protest.

Police brutality: it was getting harder and harder to remember why it was a bad idea.

July 5th:

Cafas' bike ditched sideways a brief moment after the X-man flashed through the forming police perimeter with brakes and tires screaming their protest. The X-man leaped off, stumbled at a full sprint, one hand hitting the ground before he regained balance. Sparks and black paint showered off the bike as it slid along the road behind him.

The officer who had taken charge of the scene yelled from behind him. Something about establishing a perimeter and figuring out the details. Cafas couldn't hold it against him, that's what his training said to do. Cafas' experience said they didn't have that sort of time.

He knew what he needed to. They were armed. They were going through the building rounding up the mutants. They were wearing ski masks. They'd made it to floor eight of eleven at the time the call was placed. They couldn't be far off. SWAT were on their way, but Cafas didn't like their odds of making it.

The front doors blew off their hinges in a shower of liquid steel. The glass panels hit the floor a good twenty feet into the lobby. The frames were spattered across the whole room. The first gunman, guarding the door, never got a shot off. His barrel and ammunition were useless slag by the time Cafas' shoulder drove him into the wall he'd had his back to. From his communicator came hurried orders to follow him and secure the building. The SWAT commander didn't sound pleased.

Cafas was back at a sprint up the stairs, having used the gunman much like he used railings in racing games, as turning assistance. First floor, terrified humans under desks. "Up, up, for god's sake help them!"

"What are they doing with the prisoners?"

"They took them too! Please, I think they're going to kill them!"

Cafas wasn't going to let that happen. He all but flew up the rest of the stairs, heart hammering, breath starting to leave him. Each floor was the same from the brief glances. By the eleventh, Cafas was really appreciating the cardio sessions people had told him would kill his gains. His eyes flicked over the scene, experience highlighted threats.

Minimum ten hostages. Five remaining gunmen. Varied firearms, levelled variably at door and prisoners. He'd hardly been subtle, he supposed. The eyes behind the ski masks looked scared. Good and bad. Everyone hesitated. Everyone but the X-man. This was what he trained for. He pushed off and ran in, destroying weapons as they entered his field. Triggers were pulled to no avail, and confused looks exchanged. The rest was just a walk in the park. No training, just the bravado of the armed against the unarmed.

~~~

Cafas was slumped against the lobby wall, head back, eyes closed, trying to get his breath back. The SWAT commander, Henriks, or something like that, was yelling at him. Sweat beaded into Cafas' eyes and through his eyelids to burn a salty burn. He payed no more attention to that than he did captain Too-late-to-help. His phone rang in his pocket. Text tone.

>>If you cheat on Ghost they will never find the body.

Yelling drained into the background as Cafas looked puzzled at his phone. He knew what he'd said but... Oh, Calley had taken it like... Right.

Not what I was saying. You know that. I didn't mean to... You know I'm not doing this over text.

Oh good, now he was being yelled at for that too. Cafas stood, face set hard. "If it weren't for me, people would be dead. You'd call it collateral." Cafas made sure to give him a good shoulder check on the way past. Some colourful slurs were thrown after him. Not as colourful as his hair. Cafas shifted some strands out of his face and kept walking. They could ram their paperwork, he wasn't putting up with this.

July 7th

>> Not what I was saying.

And what had he been saying?

Head in the game, Swartz. This wasn't time to be love sick or heart broken. Not that he was. That would require—something witty—something that he'd think of later and text back and it would be scathing. For now, head in the game.

Heads.

On the third floor, an English sparrow perched on the edge of a window, preening under a wing as it surreptitiously surveyed the scene.

“Why are you doing this?” One of the hostages asked. He was nineteen or twenty, clean shaven, dressed with that casual ease that spoke of both good taste and money to spare. His voice was even, calm, reasoning.

Even, calm, and reasoning were not factors that had led to this. The hostage got the response he would have seen coming, if he wasn't from a family that talked through its conflicts.

“What are you seeing, Whiskers?” SWAT commander Henricks asked. Some people called him Whiskers affectionately. His partner, people at the 24th who'd known him before he'd joined the force, rookies who'd picked it up after. Henricks used it because it was a rare day he could call a mutie a mutie and not have HR yelling in his ear. It was just a nick name; everyone used it.

Calley winced. “Well, they just punted a kid across the room. That… probably cracked a rib. They're sorting out the mutants from the humans, putting them on opposite sides of the room. Five attackers. Twenty-one kids. This is going to end about as well as you'd expect if we don't get in there soon, Henricks.”

Two days ago, a group of humans had held up an office building, rounding up the mutants inside. SWAT and a certain X-Man had saved the day with no casualties on the hostage's end of things, but it had been all over the news.

Someone had gotten the bright idea that revenge was in order. Because holding up a preppy liberal arts college would show 'em.

>> You know that.

Just what was he supposed to know? He wasn't a mind reader. His mind reader was out in Colorado with his illusionist. If Cafas thought he should know something—like, say, 'this is a sarcastic comment', or 'I think you're spending too much time at work'--how was he supposed to know unless the man said something?

“I'm a healer,” a blonde-haired girl was saying, her hands in the air. Demonstrate, they ordered her, and she did. The even-calm-reasoning boy from before looked a lot better after she did. He even sat up, with her help. There was something in his eyes that had broken a lot worse than his ribs, though. He stayed kneeling uncertainly behind his savior, and didn't try sweet talking their attackers again.

“Anyone else hiding abilities? Don't be shy, now, it's a perfect time to out yourself.”

When the office building had been attacked, they'd used guns. Calley had noticed that most mutants seemed to instinctively scorn such weapons. There was a pride in doing by nature's gift what Homo sapiens had to do by monkey tool.

One of the attackers was lazily rolling a white-hot flame over his knuckles. “Any takers? Anyone? Right, then. Mutants are free to go.”

“What are you going to do with them?” The healer girl asked.

“Mutants,” the fire dancer lazily repeated, with a grin, “Are free to go.”

And most of them did. Go, that is. Another attacker even held the door open for them, all polite-like, while the rest kept the humans cowering in the corner. It had been a philosophy class, as far as Calley could tell. He wasn't sure which one was the teacher; probably the guy in the crocs, but they were all so young.

“Go,” the firemancer repeated, jerking his head towards the door.

The healer stood. That was all the more she moved. The boy she'd healed stood up behind her, a bit unsteady on his feet, and even more unsteady in his role in all this. His first mistake: assuming he had any voice here.

“I am human,” she said.

“Leave. Last warning.”

“So are you. You don't have to do this.”

>> I didn't mean to…

They heard the scream from the street.

“I didn't mean to--” The pyro was trying to extinguish the flame on his fingers. He wrapped his other hand other them, but that just made it spread.

“What the **** man, what the ****--”

“Hostage down.” Calley confirmed, down on the street.

“Mutant or human?” Someone on SWAT asked.

Shut the **** up wasn't an appropriate answer. “Human.” Calley answered, because she would have said the same.

Henricks gave the order. Finally.

>> ...You know I'm not doing this over text.

Later that night, sitting in his apartment, his hair damp from the shower and his clothes smelling like smoke where they sat in the hamper, Calley stared at his phone. It sat on the coffee table. The TV talked and talked and talked behind it. Officer in critical condition at New York Presbyterian. One attacker killed, mutant. One hostage killed, human.

She'd been deep, deep in the closet. Her classmates had left her there. Out of respect to her family? To her? He wasn't sure. He hadn't said anything, either.

He reached for his phone.

I'm not dead, he texted. Just that.

They couldn't all charge in and save the day single-handed. Some mutants were only human.

Still July 7th:

Cafas wasn't sure who they were there to guard against any more. At first, it had been pretty simple, mutant protests, human violence. Sure, the odd rowdy protester threw some weird energy beam, or quill, or the more mundane brick, but overall it wasn't too bad.

It isn't him

The retaliations had started though. Cafas had asked them not to. Had begged every night to powers he had never believed in to stop them from happening. They'd known it would happen though. Violence never went unanswered for long. Some of it was Ragnarok. Actually ,some of both side was Ragnarok. They just weren't an organised enough faction for the whens, hows, and wheres to disseminate through the ranks though.

It's probably not him.

As it turned out, when was the 7th of July, how was to take hostage a college class hostage and kill the humans, where was the 24th precinct. Cafas' phone hadn't been more than a foot from him since. Not with an unspecified officer in critical condition. He'd been waiting on a snarky reply for two days. Now he was scared he'd never get it at all.

Don't be him.

The day wore into evening wore into night, and the protesters finally seemed like they wanted to disperse. It had been eerily peaceful. No sign of any counter protest, no taunting, nothing hurled into or out of the crowd but chants. Cafas adjusted the riot police uniform he had been given. With officers exhausted, injured, or dead, there hadn't even been the consideration that he would be acting as anything but another shield in the line.

Please don't be him.

Thirty minutes before their permit expired the protest organisers were thanking everyone, reminding them to take their trash with them, telling people to stay safe. There was a visible sigh of relief that passed through the police line, colleagues turning to smile ever so faintly to each other. Cafas even got one, before the officer in question got a firm nudge and a pointed glare.

Anyone but him.

The group broke up, not in the usual drips and drabs, but almost like clockwork, groups of ten or so humans headed off to find their cars, or cabs, or busses, or trains. They seemed to have planned to stay safe. Cafas almost wanted to congratulate them, but he was in an NYPD uniform, not an X-man uniform, and the NYPD officers made no move to interact with the protesters unless they started the interaction. Cafas' phone finally chimed and his hand dove into his pocket to retrieve it.

>>I'm not dead

Thanks Calley. You holding up okay? Stay safe.

Cafas could have cried, or whooped, he wasn't sure which. He didn't, but he could have. Exhaustion was playing a bigger role than restraint, however. There was some murmuring among the rest of the police, the line starting to break formation, people returning to squad cars to deposit gear. Everyone stopped at once.

"NO PLEASE!"

The scream echoed around them. Everyone started moving, reaching for guns and radios. Then they stopped, the colour draining from their faces. The scream was joined by another, then another. From every direction they started.

"ALL UNITS TO EAST 138TH PROTEST! REPEAT, ALL UNITS..."

Partner units broke off and started spreading out.

Cafas picked a direction and ran.

Gunfire.

Late July 7th, or Early July 8th

The text startled him awake. His phone vibrated on the wooden coffee table, clattering across the surface a millimeter at a time. Behind it, the TV still played the news. Sports and weather. Sports and weather were good: they meant that whatever protests were going on right now, they were boring enough not to warrant coverage. Peace didn't make headlines.

Calley pawed at the phone.

>> Thanks Calley. You holding up okay? Stay safe.

Thanks for what. Holding up okay—did Cafas really expect an answer to that? Did Cafas really need an answer? Stay safe.

You too, he grudgingly shoot back. He didn't even wait a day or two first, to let the Aussie simmer. Clearly a sign of how exhausted he was.

He flopped back on the couch, phone on his chest. One of his cat ears was squished awkwardly against a pillow, and his tail was going numb where he lay on it, but moving didn't seem necessary. In a minute, he'd get up, and brush his teeth, and sleep in his bed like an adult.

In a minute.

Calley startled awake, phone vibrating on his chest. This is what he got for replying so quickly: now Cafas was going to think they were talking again.

s**** going down at 138th.

It wasn't Cafas. It was his partner.

They need more hands? He shot back, too tired to question the request coming through texts instead of a call, and from his partner instead of his sergeant.

Code Pink was there.

The TV was still on. It had been on the whole time. The apartment could get too quiet without it; one person didn't make much noise.

BREAKING NEWS, it blared in red scrolling banners, with a concerned female reporter in an artfully disheveled skirt-suit. He didn't know what had happened to the sound. It was just kind of… ringing.

Might not still be there. I heard dispatch routing him a few hours ago. Just thought you should know.

>>Thanks Calley. You holding up okay? Stay safe.

Reply.

Hey if you're safe at home now would be a great time to tell me that.

“We're live on the scene, as peaceful protest turns to--”

Whiskers don't just stop responding you know that freaks people out. You don't even know he's there. Maybe ask the Other Woman?

No. No he was not texting Ghost, because if Cafas was still out, even if he was just driving home or stopping for coffee or talking smack with Henricks, then he'd be worrying her for nothing. And if Cafas was already home, then there was nothing to worry about, and he'd reply the next time he got a chance. The Aussie wasn't the one leaving their conversation hanging for days.

Seriously Cafas this is a bad time to take petty revenge. Text me back.

“--reports of responding META bots exhibiting erratic behavior--”

July 8th:

Cafas wasn't sure which he was more worried about.

On the one hand, he had a mutant calling him a blood traitor and a hypocrite, all the while slinging some kind of goo that Cafas wasn't willing to get on himself. Not after what it had done to the concrete, or his riot shield, or whoever it was that existed from the abdomen down to Cafas' right. Angry, violent, having thrown away their life with the first murder.

On the other, he had a nine foot tall robot, relentlessly firing an automatic shotgun at anything that entered its field of vision. Said shotgun accounted for the shimmering blue corpse in front of Cafas, one Wolf news camera man, and one growing ball of liquid lead hovering nearby. Efficient, robotic, and glitching the hell out.

A much smaller ball of goo than previously hit the bot. Smoke began to pour from the carbotanium skin of the thing. Garbled electronic sounds flew from its speaker, a round, fist sized object flew from its shoulder. "GET DOWN!" The X-man tried to make it to the mutant, he really did. A lopsided view from the camera of the recently deceased journalist would attest that he tried. Computer targeting and impact detonation were simply faster than an X-man.

"NO!"

The news camera got a good view as the Sentry kept firing upon an advancing X-man to no effect. It paused momentarily, mid action, before what looked much like internal structural components exploded out the back of the bot. It cut to static.

~~~

Cafas once again found himself slumped against a wall, lit alternately by red and blue light. Blood, his own and not, in indeterminable measure, caked his face and uniform. Two nearly clean tracks had carved their way from his eyes to his chin. A large section of his jacket had been burned away, the skin beneath a raw mess. Two ambulance officers were dealing with the wounds as best they could. They weren't exactly DocProf.

His phone, by some miracle, had made it through the fighting in a functional condition. He had messages.

>>You too.

>>Hey if you're safe at home now would be a great time to tell me that.

>>Seriously Cafas this is a bad time to take petty revenge. Text me back.

138th. Alive. Wounded. Not critical.

The most important stuff was sent first. He was late, dawn was grey on the horizon. He hoped Calley had gotten some sleep.

Sentry bots went nuts, opened fire on everything. There was nothing most people could do to stop them. Casualties TBA.

Cafas dropped his phone to the ground next to him. Fresh tears burned in his eyes, trickling down his cheeks, warm against the pre-dawn chill. The EMTs finished with the last bandage. Everyone had the same emptiness in their eyes in the little trio greeting the new day in the middle of what had so recently been a battlefield. the first true light of dawn found them all huddled, hugging each other and quietly crying. There was nothing left that any of them could do for the victims, so they turned to triage of their companions' souls.

Still July 8th.

The news cameras rolled, capturing the failed heroics of an X-Man movie star.

Calley didn't see them. Traffic would be a nightmare close to the scene, and transit redirected. Flying was out, because arriving without his badge at a precinct that far off from his own was a good way to not be trusted.

Calley took a horse. Namely, his own.

“The **** is mounted patrol doing here?” Was pretty much the reaction he expected to get when he reached the line, yes.

He dismounted. He also danced gingerly on sore hooves, because horses weren't made for running unshod across concrete, and he really needed to figure out how some other shifters kept their clothes because horse shoes would be dandy.

“Officer Swartz, 24th Precinct,” he tried not to sound half as winded as the black stallion next to him was making him feel. “Not mounted, just a mutie. Where do you need me?”

The officer in charge paused with his hand on his radio, giving him a long stare. The burns still fresh on his wrinkled hamper-rescued uniform weren't helping with first impressions.

Then again, maybe they were exactly the kind of first impressions an officer needed to make, right about now.

“Can you take on a META?”

“Not a chance in hell, Sir.” Honesty. Honesty sucked. “I can do surveillance without risking my own neck, though.” Much.

“Search and rescue,” the officer shot, and got back to business.

Calley joined the line. The stallion he turned to a crow. He scouted the alleys, the shops with broken windows, the little hidden-away places that might look safe to someone getting desperate. Some of them could be coaxed into following the gravelly-voiced bird to safety. Some of them needed a team to go in and get them, risking their own hides to drag out some shivering wreck and pass them off to the EMTs.

That's just how it was.

“--wartz! You seen an officer named Swartz? Shifter from the 24th, probably has cat ears--”

“Over here, Schulman.” He waved

The first thing his partner did was refrain from punching him. The second was hug him, and honestly, it was tight enough it hurt more than the punch would have. Never underestimate a Jewish girl who went to the academy instead of getting married.

“I'm going to kill you, Whiskers,” she hissed in his ear. “You do not. Stop. Texting. In the middle of an emergency. I thought you were going to run into the damn crossfire and—God, I don't know--die tragically all over Pink's lap.”

“It's METAs, Schuls. What can I do against METAs?”

She hugged him again. Then they got back to doing their damn jobs.

There was dawn slipping between the skyscrapers when everything was done. Slag metal pointed the way. Calley stopped, and leaned back on another ambulance, waving off the concerned looks of the EMTs. Out of sight, out of mind.

Cafas was fine. Just fine. Sitting up and—and texting, it looked like. All the rest could be healed. X-Men didn't bother with such archaic institutions as modern hospitals, after all.

Schulman peeked around the edge of the ambulance. “He looks like ****. Hey. Whiskers, wait. Aren't you even going to say hi?”

He waved her off, and kept clear of the X-Man's sight lines as he trudged back to the main streets. There was enough chaos on the scene that it wasn't hard.

His pocket vibrated.

>> 138th. Alive. Wounded. Not critical.

And again.

>> Sentry bots went nuts, opened fire on everything. There was nothing most people could do to stop them. Casualties TBA.

Get yourself to DocProf, he shot back, and slipped the phone back in his pocket. And nearly tripped over a motorcycle tire.

Schulman steadied his arm. “You suck at texting and walking, Whiskers.”

It was a familiar motorcycle. A hell of a lot more scratched up than he'd last seen it, and maybe not all from tonight.

It was also the epitome of illegally parked. He dug in his pocket. Pen and pad.

“Really, Whiskers? Really?”

And scratched out a ticket, slightly burned around the edges.

“You two need to bang and make up,” Schulman eloquently stated, as Calley tucked the parking ticket onto the downed bike. Badge 27182. Issuing officer: Swartz.

July 13th:

Cafas stumbled and fell forward, catching himself on his forearms. He scrabbled back to his feet and started running. He felt a bulk of metal flying in behind him. Far be it from him to adopt the Prometheus school of running away from things. Cafas dived to the side as a car landed where he'd just been. "For me? Aw, how did you know it was my birthday?" The X-man stood and began running again as an eight foot Minotaur skidded to halt and rounded on him.

The running of the bulls seemed like a better idea before now...

Corners were his friends, he had discovered. The bullheaded mutant behind him was faster and stronger than him, but also heavier, and hoofier. Cafas had the agility advantage by a long shot. He squeezed the button on his shoulder radio as he rounded into another alley. "Coming in hot from the west." He heard a crash of masonry giving way to his pursuer's bulk hitting it. "Very hot." Cafas leaned forward and pushed like his life depended on it, legs moving fast enough he was worried he might lose control of them.

Don't trip, don't trip, don't trip...

Freshly twenty six year old Cafas burst from the mouth of the alley, hooves close behind him. The sunlight after the relative gloom of the Alley was blinding. From memory and the small amounts of metal in it Cafas managed to vault a pile of trash bags that had accumulated on the sidewalk. His pursued just bulled right through them. A chorus of rapid clicking sprang up around the X-man, followed by a very involuntary bellow from the mutant that had been chasing him.

One down.

"STAY DOWN! STAY ON THE FLOOR! HANDS BEHIND YOUR BACK!"[/b] Tasers were still poised, ready to be re-triggered if necessary, but the fight seemed to leave the Minotaur after their long skid along the ground and nasty electrical paralyzation. Cafas stood and dusted off his borrowed police uniform, his X-uniform having been well and truly destroyed. He was rather short of breath, having run two city blocks while organising for backup. Apparently the protester saw him as some form of traitor. "Glad that worked." Cafas turned to smile at the officer next to him, heart still pounding.

The officer did not return the smile. This was mostly shock. It had been days since Cafas had last bothered to interact with him. Leaving messages hanging for the better part of a week was his prerogative, not the X-Man's. But here it was: a smiling Cafas. Looking straight at him.

His ears made the call: lay down flat. Tail twitch. So apparently that was the reaction he was going with, thank-you-instincts.

“Congratulations. You didn't get trampled.” Why did he even bother to open his mouth why.

Schulman had started grinning sometime between coming in hot and veeeery hot, and hadn't stopped since. She clapped his ex on the back. “Nice job, Pink.”

Cafas' face fell, all serious. this was not the officer he had intended to be smiling at. No, he was fairly sure he'd meant to smile at someone else. Anyone else. Someone who hadn't clearly not even bothered to see if he was okay in person. Someone who hadn't given him a ticket out of spite. "Oh, Officer Swartz. I'm contesting your ticket." Yeah, take that! Not just to buy Calley a day in court rather than on the beat, either! No, his safety was not the only reason. Cafas was also dangerously close to losing his license thanks to the 24th's little vendetta.

Well deserved...

A rather more solid than one might expect hand clapped Cafas of the back as Calley's partner cut the tension between the two like a hammer. He turned to meet her beaming gaze and suppressed an eye-twitch. Maybe she didn't remember. Hopefully she didn't. "Thanks Schulman. I wasn't sure I was gonna be able to find my way out of that damn maze." Cafas jerked a thumb at the alley he'd just narrowly escaped death in. The Minotaur bellowed once more, clearly choosing to waive the right to remain silent. More was the pity.

That taser can't feel nice though. Poor bastard.

The X-man turned back to his ex-lover, all business. "Swartz, the protesters are getting out of hand. Aerial recon, we need to know where they are and where they're going. Can you splinter two blocks away?" He cocked a challenging eyebrow. Truth be told he knew exactly how far Calley could splinter. Well, at least how far he could a year ago. He just wanted to pretend like he'd forgotten. Like he didn't think about him as often as he did.

“You really think traffic court is running during this? The judges have bigger issues to deal with.” He had no idea if traffic court was open or not but that was hardly the point. “Better pay up. Wouldn't want a late fine.”

If Schulman remembered standing in line for two hours at a certain signing, or the fact that she hadn't come up with anything wittier to blurt than 'I like your movies', it wasn't showing on her face.

>>"Swartz, the protesters are getting out of hand. Aerial recon, we need to know where they are and where they're going. Can you splinter two blocks away?"

“I don't know, Johnson. Let me check.” Calley gave his ex-X the look that deserved. Then he called over his shoulder. “Hey Nyugen. Do I take orders from X-Men?”

“Do the orders make sense? Run the recon, Swartz.” His Sergeant was not being a bro right now. In retrospect, that's about what he should have expected from Nyugen.

Calley splintered out the damn bird. An English sparrow, because no one actually paid attention to those.

“...They're going to a clinic. The kind of clinic with 'free prenatal x-gene screening' on the signs.”

Cafas did his best not to look smug. Nyugen may not like Cafas, but he liked petty jabs in emergency situation even less, it would seem. The X-man winked one grey eye at Calley as he turned away to look at what resources they had. It wasn't great, honestly. Better than nothing, but they were spread thin with their constantly dwindling numbers and the increase in violence. Riot shields were lined against a nearby wall, tear gas canisters in a crate Cafas could see sticking out of the riot truck. Lots of firearms, though Cafas was loathe to see them used.

Not like they seem bothered by killing us.

>>“...They're going to a clinic. The kind of clinic with 'free prenatal x-gene screening' on the signs.”

The sergeant spat an expletive. "Alright, well unless you see a bunch of flowers and a novelty cheque I want a shield line at the clinic right now!" Uniformed bodies, all those not needed to keep the Minotaur in check, grabbed shields and loaded into the back of the riot van. Cafas stepped on to the exterior skirting and held the handle there with his free hand.

This doesn't seem safe at all...

"Can we get a water cannon down here?" Cafas yelled over the wailing siren to Nyugen as he loaded into the back. The sergeant shot Cafas a look even he had no problem interpreting; No, and shut up. The truck lurched into motion, rounding the corner and accelerating towards the unruly mob of mutants. It'd be a tight thing to get a line formed in time.

Very tight.

Cafas stepped off the skirting at a jog, the doors of the van burst open, police spilled out and began to fan out, then the truck rolled to a stop. Even with the co-ordination all their recent practice provided they weren't making it. Cafas extended his power out, pulling a manhole cover free, hurling it into the front runners of the group. It took a flaming mutant fully in the thighs, sending him crashing to the ground with a snap. The X-man cringed as the next row tripped over the fire man.

"Swartz, by Pink, no-one else knows him well enough." Protestation began to leave Caas before he was once more affixed with the aforementioned look.

At least I'll have Schulman.