Protest Art (Andrew)

He could boil the idea down to two inspirations. A quote he had seen, God knows when and where. It had been during some vague moment of delirium-inspired research, part pipe dream of artistic fame, part method of staving off sleep. Some famous Pom had been doing all sorts of graffiti around England, America, even on the Jerusalem Wall. Part satire, part protest, part...well, Mat imagined part of it was simply a bloke taking the piss. He couldn't remember the guy's name, but the quote had stuck with him.

If graffiti changed anything, it would be illegal.

The other thing that had inspired him?

Seeing footage of a young mutant girl having the shit kicked outta her by a pack of gutless cops.

Some folk'd been watching the video on a phone. It still amazed Mat how much technology had changed in the time he'd been on the streets. The last phone he had owned made phone calls, sent texts and played a black and white version of Snake II. Times, it seemed were a'changin'. He'd overheard them discussing the video, and when he asked, they had shown him. The footage was sickening, to say the least. He had known, second handedly, that American cops were full on, even before coming to the US. He had discovered it further upon arriving here. But seeing that girl held down, beaten senselessly?

Well. That one took the cake.

After that, he had tried to follow the case. It gnawed at him, like an itch that wouldn't go away no matter how hard he scratched. The cops, it seemed, had been let off. 'Reasonable use of force', or some crap. It seemed, they would walk. Just. Like. That.

So he had taken it upon himself to make a statement. He knew it wouldn't be much, but it would be a start. It would, hopefully, be enough for people to take notice. To realise that the bigotry and prejudice against mutants needed to end. Somewhere in that sleep deprived, addled thing he called a mind, Mat knew that he could be the voice to the masses. A voice of the mutants.

As well as a giant pain in the arse to the scumbag humans who let this sort of treatment happen.

Around New York City, on the busiest of roads, statues were beginning to appear. Some seemed to sprout, rooted to the ground, as if part of the very asphalt itself. Elsewhere, there were reports of concrete statues walking around, crossing roads and stopping in the middle, never to move again. Traffic was being disrupted all over, with cars unable to get around blocked lanes. Attempts at removal were difficult at best, each statue being a solid object, too heavy to lift. So far, proven methods were limited to sledgehammers and jack-hammers. Even the odd crowbar or two. More than one car or truck had been damaged in vain attempts at running the sculptures down.

Descriptions of these semi-living statues were all identical. Shaped to be people, only their faces were left blank. Each held a sign made of cheap plywood and canvas. And on each sign, in big scrawled letters done in spray paint, the same message.

'YOU THINK THIS IS INCONVINIENT? TRY BEING A MUTANT'

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Somewhere in the city, Mat had long given up on trying to determine his exact locations, a man leaned up against the wall. A rattling cough came from the depths of his chest as he come around the corner of an alley and leant up against the store-front. If his cough sounded bad, then his appearance was even worse. Ratty clothing. Greasy, dishevelled hair that had obviously been hacked away in what could only be described as an attempt at a haircut. Unhealthily thin, to the point of looking anorexic. And the bags under his eyes? The less said about them, the better.

He scratched at his nose with a paint stained finger. A tiny smirk played at his lips. One of New York's mysterious statues emerged form the alleyway he had just exited not a minute ago, carrying it's sign. As onlookers all gawped and gasped, he joined. Only his was more amused, than shocked. Not that anyone would notice.

Who pays any attention to the homeless bum?

Rubbing his mouth to hide his chuckle, Mat commanded his golem to cross the road, paying no heed to any oncoming traffic. Tyres squealed and horns blared as the concrete man took position. Turning to face the nearest car, it held up it's sign, before offering a middle finger to the driver. Thoroughly amused and thoroughly proud, Mat broke his connection to the golem, before laughing out loud.

The symphony of car horns made this task all the more worthwhile.