Recent Posts

May 7th, 2013

The car flipped a half block out. Lagarde didn’t see what had flipped it, not at first. There was just motion, disjoint, sound, disconnected, smoke shouting sirens falling, glass breaking, numbness spreading.

It wasn’t just the car flip. That’s what he realized, slowly, as he stared out at a world turned upside down and fragmented. The windshield was a spiderweb of white lines. His seatbelt held him in place, his head about three inch from the roof of the car.

Two inches.

One.

Something was crushing them. Slowly, methodically. The metal frame made short, pained noises at each contraction.

“Sammy.” His hand snaked to his seatbelt. He clicked it off, but didn’t fall that last inch. Strange. Not something to worry about now. “Sammy.” He found his partner’s shoulder, shook it. He thought he heard a groan from her, but it was hard to tell. Their siren hadn’t turned off. And the metal, all around them, inching closer—

His head finally touched the roof. He braced his hands against it, and tried to free himself from his seat. No luck. Something snaked over the windshield outside, long and thick and black. A tentacle of solid darkness. Sure, why not. It really didn’t matter. They were ****ed already; everything was ****ed.

“Sammy, talk to me.” He got a shoulder propped against the roof, so he could look. Her side of the car wasn’t as badly damaged; whatever had rolled them had struck the driver’s side. Hers almost normal, by comparison. Her window had shattered in the roll, but the side airbag had caught most of the glass. It was already deflating. She hung from her seat, arms draped against the roof. He didn’t see any blood on her, but she wasn’t awake, either. “Com’on, Sammy girl, you’ve got to get up. Please.”

He finally got the nerve to look down at himself. Up at himself, whatever. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Please.”

The goddamn siren was still wailing, right above his head. In that moment, if he could have killed one thing, just by thinking? The siren. No question.

Around them, the car contracted again. Another tendril of black slipped across the windshield. He felt the movement in his shoulders, his neck, where he got ground a little more snuggly into the roof. He didn’t feel anything in his legs. There was a mercy in that.

Movement caught his eye, on Sammy’s side of the car. Not one of the tentacles crushing the car: something smaller. Flightier. It flitted in, landed on the roof, hopped. A sparrow?

A sparrow, at 10 o’clock, in the middle of a riot zone?

“You get away from her,” he tried to hit it away with his arm, but it just hopped back, a hair out of reach. “You get goddamn away from her!”

It took another half-hop back, paused a moment to watch how ineffectual his efforts to swat it were, then went back to eying Sammy. Jimmy braced himself again, tried to pry another inch out of his legs. Just another inch, just so he could keep it away from her face. Sparrow-shifting had to be one of the most useless powers he’d ever heard of, but the freak was in a combat zone for a reason. If he could just keep it away from her eyes, her neck, anywhere vulnerable—

It tilted its head, watching him. Its black eyes flicked to his pinned legs, and back up to his face. It tilted its head again, the other way.

“Yeah.” Jimmy panted. “Happy?”

It hopped an inch closer. Another inch. The little bastard was toying with him, it knew he still couldn’t reach it. But it was getting cocky: another inch, another. He could probably reach it now, but only with the tips of his fingers. If he just waited, if he played possum—

Another hop.

Jimmy hit it as hard as he could. It didn’t dodge; he’d half expected that, but it didn’t. He saw it slam against the windshield. Then act had jogged something lose, and he fell hard against the roof, his legs in the air.

His legs. In the air.

He could… feel his legs?

He looked upwards, not daring to breath. And flexed his legs. His stick thin, sort of scaly, black crow legs.

Whark, he said, when he’d been meaning to say “What.”

The sparrow was tottering back to its feet. He spun on the thing, getting feet and wings under him before he could think too hard about what he was doing, and how he was doing it. He was bigger than the sparrow, much bigger. But not as big as he should have been.

Whaaaaark.

It tittered something equally unintelligible, and took three hops back towards the open window. Around them, the car contracted another inexorable inch. It flittered outside, then back in. Looked at him pointedly. Then flew back out, and waited with nervous twitches of its head on the pavement.

Jimmy tilted his own head. Was it one of the MRC cops? Did they have some kind of bird-shifter? He hadn’t heard of it, but he worked out of the 18th. They weren’t exactly neighbors. He jerked his beak towards his partner.

Shhh-mak. He was surprised the sounds came out as intelligible as it did. Sammy. Outside, the sparrow very deliberately shook its head. It took off, towards the station.

Jimmy followed. He didn’t know how, didn’t think too hard about how his arms were suddenly wings and his wings seemed to know what to do, but they did. One of the station windows had been shattered by an earlier attack. They flew through, and slid to an ungraceful stop on the floor behind the front desk. Tile floor: not meant for claws.

The entire lobby had been turned into a barricade of office furniture. Desks, tables, chairs, shelves, anything that could fill a gap. The officers of the 24th had established a perimeter inside. No one batted an eye as the birds landed. Then again, they already had a tiger making up part of the line.

“Officer Lagarde,” a sergeant barked, and the crow straightened his feathers reflexively. “Get in back. Debrief.”

Mraak Ssssrrr. Apparently Y’s were hard. Yes Sir. He hopped after the sparrow, back into an office area cleared of all but one table of the folding sorts you’d use for a garage poker game. The space was half triage, half central command, the table manned by the precinct heads. A skinny Italian officer was dry heaving into a bucket, curled up in the corner nearest them.

“That’s him?” A woman in a suit asked. The suit was rumpled and unbuttoned, her gun holster showing, but she had a weary authority to her. He pegged her as a plainclothes detective without any further introduction.

“That’s him,” the skinny officer said. “Couldn’t get the partner. Unconscious. Shifting doesn’t fix that. Should have a few minutes, they’re mostly ignoring the car now, ‘cept for the whole crushing darkness thing. Hate that guy. Any saltines left? Ginger ale?”

“Officer Lagarde,” she said, turning to address his feathery bum like the world hadn’t gone insane. “Detective Elliot, MRC Precinct. These are Watch and Johnson, 24th. Watch is in charge. I’m coordinating the shifters.”

Qwaaark? Yeah, he didn’t know quite what he’d been trying to say, either. He tried again: Sssssssaamrrr?

“Your partner?” She guessed, with a glance back at the sick kid.

He waved a hand, not looking up from his bucket. “Crows can talk. Mostly. Give him a few minutes, he’ll figure it out. Hi, by the way. Thanks for hitting me. Really helpful. Makes me very glad I’m sticking around.”

“Swartz,” she warned. The kid went back to dry heaving, by way of reply.

She sighed, and patted the table. He took the hint, and flew up next to her, joining the circle of cops. The sparrow was already there, its eyes squeezed shut, looking a little woozy. Jimmy tilted his head.

“Meet Swartz,” the detective said, gesturing to the kid, “and Swartz.” The sparrow. “You may have seen tiger Swartz on your way in. Same Swartz. He’s on our side.”

Our side? So… not an officer. Now that the crow looked closer, the uniform he was wearing was too lose for him. Way too lose.

“Best life choice ever,” Swartz quipped from his bucket. He was summarily ignored by all parties present.

“We’re going to get your partner out, but we need to make an opening,” Sergeant Watch took over. “You’re on aerial reconnaissance.”

Jimmy got his feathers in line.

Yissssss Ssssrrrr.

May 6th, 2013

Detective Cassandra Elliot reached over to the windowsill, and nudged the piece of powdered sugar donut with her finger. It bumped against the cat’s paw. He briefly looked down at it, then went back to staring out the open window, his ears intent on the world outside. A siren whirred from the parking lot. Tires squealed.

“You worried too, cat?”

She’d never named the cat. It wasn’t really her cat. Just a stray that had turned up one day when she’d left the window cracked for air, and stolen a donut off her desk. He’d been dropping by her office on and off for nearly seven years now. He’d disappear for months at a time, and she’d be sure that was the last of him, that he’d gotten hit by a truck or eaten by a dog, but he’d always turn back up. The little white cat with black spots here and there, and baby blue eyes.

“It’s all right.” She looked out the window, too. There was a trace of smoke in the air. “Just means you’ve got a brain in there.”

Officer Jameson peeked into her office. “If you’re going home, you’d better go now. It’s getting bad out there.”

“Mmm.”

Jameson came over, and idly scritched at the cat’s ears. The cat give him a look of crippling disdain, but also began purring. “This isn’t going to just blow over, is it?”

She reached for her coffee mug, and found it tragically empty. She still curled her hands around it, more for the familiar feel than for anything else. “You saw the news.”

Things were tense enough with the Schuyler beating, and the exoneration. This? This was just a bad joke.

“Damn reporters,” Jameson said, as the cat pressed against his hand.

“Damn us,” Cassandra said, and the officer was silent.

Scumbags came in all colors. Blue was no exception, much as they all wanted it to be.

She sighed, and grabbed her purse. “I’m out. Don’t let anything burn while I’m gone.” She had little doubt she’d be called back in soon. They all would be, if they couldn’t get things under control downtown. Until then? She’d try to get a little sleep, and a shower would be divine. She shooed Jameson out of her office door and the cat out the window, and locked up both of them. Not in that order.

Detective Cassandra Elliot stepped out the precinct doors in plainclothes, and gripped her purse as another squad car peeling by. She had a moment of feeling disoriented, anonymous. Of feeling what every other woman getting off work right now must feel. That the world was scary, and she was small. Difference was, she was still a cop at the core. This wasn’t the first time the muties had gone on a rampage, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Having her service weapon still tucked under her coat helped, too. A little. She shifted her purse, and went down the steps. The MRC Precinct was close to her apartment.

The little white cat with black spots here and there met her at the second corner, like it had been waiting. It twined around her legs, tripping her in its affections.

“Hey, hey--! Easy, little guy. Rare of you to show your face out here.” She tried to scoop him up, but he evaded, like always. Like always, she pushed her disappointment down. Taking him home and making an honest house cat of him had always been her pipe dream, but it wasn’t one the cat shared.

Murrr, morble, murrrr

“Sure.” She companionably agreed, whapping at his tail before stepping over him. Her ears heard the breaking glass as she rounded the corner, but her brain didn’t process the sound in time. It was like falling down the stairs—there was that crystal clear moment when she lost her footing, knew she’d lost it, but couldn’t do a damn thing about it. “…S***.”

The vandals turned their heads towards her. Six heads, on four bodies. Screw the racism seminars: that just wasn’t right.

“Human or mutant?” The one with a flatscreen TV slung over one shoulder demanded.

“Mutant.” There was really only one answer to that, and she lied without hesitation. The cat brushed against her leg, but she ignored it.

One of the other muties narrowed his eyes. “Prove it.” He held up his own hand, and the little flash of flame that sprung up in his palm left no ambiguities.

“Can’t,” she said. “I’m a precog.”

“So what’s in our future, missy?”

Part of her wanted to laugh at the terrible line. Another part was oddly, irrationally flattered: she’d thought she was well out of the missy years. Most of her? Most of her was wondering how many of them she could shot, how much paperwork it would mean, and whether she’d be alive to do it. And that little part that was left over, the one that wanted to cry? That part was telling her that until they tried to slam her head in, or light her on fire, this wasn’t a clear cut case of self-defense. She wondered if this was what it had been like for the officers who’d ignited this whole debacle, if they’d been thinking what she was: take the freaks out first, or die.

“Can’t do it on cue,” she said, backing up a step, her hand slipping towards her shoulder. Nominally to push up her purse strap, but the weight of the gun under her jacket gave her grim hope.

“Convenient.” The guy with too many heads nodded left and right, and his buddies moved to flank her. Her hand slipped under her jacket.

“I can vouch for her,” said the cat at her feet. “Definitely a precog. Had the foresight to bring a friend, didn’t she?”

There was a moment of blinking confusion all around. Cassandra held her breath, hoping the shock she felt wasn’t as clear on her face as it was on the looters’.

“That’s… legit. I guess.” Hazarded the guy with the flames. “You should… probably get off the streets. Bad time to look human. Bad time to be a mutant, too,” he added, with a sardonic, almost friendly smile.

She warped her own lips into an approximation of a return smile. “Yeah. Thanks. Good luck.” It seemed like a friendly thing to say, mutant-to-mutant. “You know there’s a police station two blocks that way, right? The one that specializes in mutants? …Maybe loot somewhere else?”

The muties turned to each other, exchanging glances. At her feet, the cat had pinned its tail with a paw, and was grooming it sedately.

“What?” She knew she’d regret it. The second it was out of her mouth, she knew.

They exchanged a few more glances, and snippets of a conversation she would have been happier not understanding.

“No way they were stupid enough to hit the MRC.”

“They were pretty stupid.”

“Not that stupid. They weren’t going that way, though, were they?”

“Where were they going?” She dreaded the answer. The cat’s tail twitched under his paw as he licked it.

The one with too many heads pointed. Northwest. The 24th Precinct.

“Different station,” she reassured them. “Well. I’m… getting out of here. Take care.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Speed walking was an art. Ignoring the cat at her side was another.

“I have been feeding you donuts for seven years.”

“What?” It flicked its ears upward, turning those baby blues her way. It still looked like just a cat. As much as she stared, she didn’t see any depths of intelligence, any human soul starring back out at her. It really, really just looked like a cat.

“Nothing. It just felt relevant.”

“ ‘Kay.” It paused, licked at a shoulder, stared off down a side street. “Umm, shouldn’t you turn here? To go to your apartment?”

“You know where I live.”

The cat licked its other shoulder, even more studiously.

She ran a hand through her hair. “No, I’m not turning. We need to warn them.” She took out her work phone. Dispatch took far too long to pick up. She started tapping her foot against the ground. The cat jumped half a step, ears lying flat as he glared at the offending appendage.

…Still just a cat.

“Dispatch. Patch me through to the 24th Precinct, Detective Gables. What? Okay. Detective Mickelson. Armsworth? S***. Dispatch, inform the MRC of the situation. Advise that Detective Elliot is en route on foot.” She stared down at the cat, who was tentatively reaching out a paw towards her shoelaces. “Plus an informant.”

The cat jerked its paw back. “What? No. What no. No no. I’m just taking you home. You gave me donuts, I save you from disgruntled mutant rioters, we’re cool, you’ll never see me again.”

She gave it a look. The look. The look that had gotten her to detective.

“Whatever.” It found a fleck on a forepaw that warranted more attention than her. “But if you try to arrest me… don’t try to arrest me. ‘Cause I’ll do. Stuff.”

No matter how she looked at it, the fleabag was still just a cat.

LARP this weekend; hoping to actually do the post thing next week. Miss you all. <3

Welcome back, Kari. <3

Midterms were in two days. Every diligent student in the school... was not to be found in the library. No, the library was for slackers of every shape and color. A mouse-eared girl was trying to cram months of someone else's geometry notes into her head; a lavender lad was looking lost in the literary fiction aisle. The air was thick with the despair of a Quarter spent doing much cooler things than studying; one could take a butter knife and a piece of bread and make Desperation Toast from the air.

And then, bird.

Heck yes, bird.

Never had a library been so full of running, shouting, and the climbing of shelves. (Because really. Who hasn't wanted to climb a library shelf? A bird is all the excuse one ever needs.)

Especially a talking bird.

"Are you a mutant?"

"Here birdie birdie—"

"Cracker, I've got a cracker!"

"Dude, that is so offensive."

"Cheese!"

And then, there was cheese. Because it is a rare day that a string cheese manipulator gets to shine. But today. Was such a day.

Lines of string cheese flew upward with telekinetic-powered grace, seeking to ensnare the stupidstupidstupid flier in their deliciously fine net.

And then, as if they had only been waiting for this signal, this shinning beacon of diary to guide their way, all mutational hell broke lose.

Midterms were in two days. Every diligent student in the school... was not to be found in the library. No, the library was for slackers of every shape, color, and mutation: and all they'd needed was a proper excuse to cease their studies.

Enter bird.

The Tom and Queen cat looked out upon what they had wrought. And it was good.

(The kitten, whose tail had come far too close to stompage, may have held a differing opinion.)

I may have a bone to pick with you, Sir. *noms thy shinbone, and has great pun doing so*

Welcome to MRO!

I'll be out of town for a week starting Saturday, with much packing in the meantime. Back on the 22nd! I'll have internet whilst away, but do not anticipate much posting. I'll keep pecking at my posts until then, but am not planning a full return to activity until I get back.

This affects Calley, Slate, Rupert, and Maxine.