Chapter Text
Protesters, counter-protesters, unions, militias, environmentalists, churches, communists, anarchists, Tea Partiers, skinheads, college kids, and out-of-towners, all stuffed into Edison Square, all waving posters and screaming into megaphones: that’s the scene that greets Sergeant Washington the morning of the International Trade Federation’s annual conference.
He breathes deep. “Smells like democracy, doesn’t it?”
“That’s sunscreen, sir,” Patrol Officer Lee mutters. “And sweat, and weed.” He fiddles with the chinstrap of his helmet, looking out at the assembled masses. “I shudder to think it’s our job to keep a lid on them all.”
“No,” Washington says, “it’s our job to keep them safe from each other, and protect their rights to freedom of speech and assembly. And to bear arms,” he tacks on, uneasily, as he spots the gleam of sunlight on the barrel of a rifle. Living in a state with an open carry law sure makes life interesting sometimes.
“Oh, come on,” Lee says, “The college kids, I get it, they’re here for the rush and to feel like they’re doing something meaningful with their lives. But those and those,” he says, pointing towards the black-clad, facemask-wearing anarchists, and then towards the very visibly armed militiamen, “they’re not here just to speak, I guarantee it.”
“As of right now, they are conducting themselves as lawful citizens, and we shall treat them as such,” Washington says, but his heart quickens at the sight of all those guns. He thanks God and all his lucky stars that the national high school debate championship is this weekend; Alex is safely hundreds of miles away. Had he been in the city, there’s no chance his adopted son would have missed this event; he would have been out there screaming about debt packages and safety regulations and labor rights with the loudest of them. Instead, he’s probably prepping in his hotel room right now, gesturing and pacing just like he does in the kitchen every morning, intent and focused and safe .
He and Lee are assigned to the square’s southeast corner. The first hours go--well, smoothly isn’t the word, but they’re not a complete mess. It starts off with an old woman handing him a flower; he feels obscurely that the action is supposed to shame him, but he’s not sure what he’s meant to be ashamed of. Keeping people safe?
He’s wearing a helmet, so he stuffs the flower between his helmet and his ear and gives the old woman a thumbs up. The more he thinks about it, the more he likes it. Full tactical gear is scary-looking. Maybe the addition of the flower will make Washington slightly less terrifying in the eyes of the people he’s supposed to protect.
Speaking of protecting, Washington breaks up two fights in ten minutes: one between a Tea Partier and a very high college kid and one between an environmentalist and a communist that turns out to be a lovers’ spat. He carts the college kid off to the first aid tent on the edge of the square, makes sure the Tea Partier is okay and gets called a very ugly slur for his pains, and mediates an argument between the environmentalist and the communist that ends with the women embracing and tearfully stroking each other’s hair. All in all, not a bad day for a major protest, until his radio crackles to life.
“Requesting reinforcement on the north side of the square-- storefronts vandalized, glass everywhere, multiple civilians with minor injuries.”
Washington pulls out his radio and says, “Head north, Lee. I’ll cover back here.” After all, it wouldn’t do to leave the whole area totally devoid of law enforcement, and Washington privately thinks that Lee will get into less trouble under the supervision of his fellow officers than he would left to patrol a quarter of the square alone.
There’s a group coming towards him--two people, carrying a third between them, and Washington pegs them all as college kids. The injured person looks conscious and alert, but they’re bleeding from the foot. Doubtless they stepped on some glass.
“Here,” Washington says. “Let me help you to the first aid tent.” He doubles back, helping support the injured party, and delivers them gently to the volunteer nurses. “In the future,” he says, “when attending mass gatherings of any type--protests, concerts, rallies-- it’s always a good idea to wear sturdy shoes. Not only will you be protected from broken glass, but it’ll also prevent people from stepping on your feet.”
One of them gives a wary smile, and the other two glare at him. Which is perfectly within their Constitutionally-protected rights, but it does sting a little. “...be sure to stay hydrated and have a nice rest of your day,” he finishes, with a dispirited wave.
The tone of the chatter on his radio modulates sharply, and Washington looks up just in time to see an enormous pane of storefront glass shatter. He spots a plume of smoke, and a moment later hears, “Vehicle on fire, repeat, vehicle on fire,” from his radio.
From this distance he can see the crowd reacting, people shoving, trying to flee. His part of the square is still relatively quiet, but that could change quickly. People can see the smoke; they’re elbowing one another, pointing, speaking in hushed tones. And everyone’s packed so tightly…
“Multiple vehicles on fire,” his radio says. There’s a news chopper overhead, making it hard to hear. “Storefronts vandalized-- delivery truck on fire.”
Washington waits for orders to descend from on high, but so far none are forthcoming. Events are moving fast, and as usual, the brass isn’t keeping up. Time to exercise a little discretion and good sense.
There’s an impassioned trade union rep standing on a wooden box and delivering a speech into a megaphone. “Excuse me, sir,” Washington says, tapping the man on the shoulder, “may I please make a quick public safety announcement?”
The man looks around, and his eyes widen at the smoke rising in the north. He hands Washington the megaphone and cedes the box. “Citizens,” Washington says, “as you can see, the situation on the other side of the square is deteriorating. People will almost certainly evacuate in this direction. I am asking you, for the sake of their safety, to please clear out so they have room to do so. If you wish to continue to exercise your right to peaceable assembly, the conference will be here all week.”
“Are we under arrest?” someone shouts.
“Certainly not. But I do request that you please leave, for the safety of everyone here. Thank you.”
He steps back off the box and hands the megaphone to the trade union rep. “You heard the man,” the rep says, stepping back up on the box, “Pack it in. We’ll come back tomorrow when shit’s not on fire.”
“Hear, hear,” says a woman. They gather up their posters and make for the exits. Others, even those who were out of earshot for Washington’s little announcement, start to follow, nervously glancing at their phones or at the rising columns of black smoke from across the square.
“I’m evacuating the southeast corner as peaceably as I can,” Washington says into his radio. He climbs back up on the box--abandoned by the trade union folks--and sees a bottleneck of people at the northern exits to the square. “Fifth Street exit is clearing out,” he says, checking over his shoulder. “Direct them this way if possible. I repeat, evac route through Fifth is clear.”
He’s not sure if anyone’s listening to his message; from what he can see, most of the blue bodies up north are busy protecting the stores. Parts of the crowd seem to be figuring it out, though, small clumps breaking off and heading south. They’re watching the live feed from the news helicopter , Washington realizes. Which is… clever of them. He only wishes that his superiors on the police force could do a little better job of remembering that it’s their job to protect human life first and property a distant second.
He needs something like the megaphone, but capable of reaching everyone within earshot. The majority of the crowd is young people-- he doesn’t want their first experience of a demonstration to be getting caught up in a riot, or a stampede, or a police cordon. Think, George. How would you reach Alex, if he were here?
He’s got it. He spots a man with a huge camera slung over his shoulder, panning across the crowd, and a young, professionally-dressed woman with him. He makes sure they aren’t filming first, then approaches her. “Excuse me, Miss, can you talk to Twitter?”
She blinks. “I-- um, yes?”
“Would you mind telling Twitter that the southeast exit onto Fifth Street is clear, should they wish to leave?”
“On it,” she says, pulling out her phone.
“Thank you.”
Washington is wading north through the crowd (mostly streaming in the opposite direction, although a few have chosen to stay) when he gets word they’re going to deploy tear gas. He hurriedly pulls his gas mask over his face. Some of the last protesters see it and decide to leave immediately. Others jeer. He was exposed to tear gas as a part of his training; he has a hunch that the jeerers have had no such experience.
The north side of the square is nearly abandoned, with half a dozen cars, two delivery vans, a McDonald’s, and an H&M all burning. The holdouts are about evenly split between protesters very determined to make their voices heard and the people setting the fires.
A whiz, a clang, and a hissing sound, and tear gas spills from a canister in a white cloud not twenty feet from Washington. More canisters go flying, and soon the air is so thick with gas Washington can hardly see, despite the goggles protecting his eyes. He hears retching and choking down at street level, and creeps forward dragging his boots across the ground until his toes bump up against something soft. He kneels down and finds a boy--a teenager, Alex’s age or a little older. He’s wearing a “STOP MODERN SLAVERY” shirt, his hair gathered into a wild ponytail, and he’s wheezing and rubbing frantically at his eyes.
“Stop. That only makes it worse,” Washington says, grabbing the boy’s hands and holding them still. His eyes are bloodshot, spilling over with tears. Washington takes one look at him and scoops him up off the ground, carrying him south towards the clean air.
When they’re well out of the smoke the boy’s breathing eases, and Washington sets him down gently on the sidewalk. Washington removes his gas mask. “Are you all right, son?”
“Yeah,” the boy says, tears still streaming down his face. “My eyes-- I can’t really see, everything’s just a blur...”
The kid’s acting tough, Washington knows. Tear gas feels like someone’s repeatedly striking matches on your eyeballs. “Lie down, we’ll rinse your eyes.”
Washington has a small bottle of water clipped to his belt, and he pours it over the kid’s eyes until the he sits bolt upright and cries, “You’re a cop!”
“I’m a cop.”
“Am I… am I under arrest?” He sounds half-scared, half-excited.
Washington shakes his head. “You are not under arrest. How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” the boy says, thrusting his chin out.
“In that case, I’m taking you home.” The poor kid just got tear gassed; Washington can’t leave him to navigate the hot, noisy, overcrowded subway all by himself.
The kid gasps, which sends him into a coughing fit. “What? No!”
Washington scowls. “There’s nothing left for you to accomplish here except get lit on fire, tear gassed again, thrown in jail for the night, or all three.”
The boy hangs his head. “My dad’s gonna kill me.”
Washington’s heard that line a time or two before, but it always makes his stomach fall. “He’ll probably be more worried about you than angry. Especially when I tell him you were conducting yourself peacefully and were caught in the crossfire.”
“Even if he were in the country right now, which he’s not, that wouldn’t mean anything,” the boy says. “He’s an exec at a Fortune 500 company. They’ll make billions from this trade deal if it goes through. If he knows I was protesting--”
“He’ll be thrilled that you’re safe,” Washington says firmly. “Now, let’s get you home.”
The boy, whose name is John, follows Washington back to his patrol car, and Washington punches the address he gives into the GPS. As they’re driving away Washington’s cellphone rings. “Call from Alex,” his car helpfully informs him.
“Pick up,” Washington says. He checks the time-- three in the afternoon. The debate championship is over by now, which means he’s going to be dealing either with a completely crushed Alex or a completely elated Alex.
“I,” says Alex, and Washington breaks into a grin, because he can already tell from Alex’s voice that the news is good, “am delighted to inform you that you have the privilege of speaking with America’s national speech and debate champion.”
“You won!” Washington cries. “I’m so proud. What was the expression you used the other day? It’s like my heart is full of rainbows?”
Alex laughs, loud through the car's speakers. “Mine too,” he says, but his voice immediately turns serious. “I’ve been checking the news on my phone all day. Are you okay?” There’s a faint tremble in his voice that he can’t quite mask; before Washington adopted him he’d had a truly spectacular string of bad luck with guardians, and Washington knows he worries.
“I’m doing very well,” Washington says, and, because he doesn’t want Alex to reveal anything more-- at least, not without knowing he’s got an audience-- he hurriedly adds, “I’ve got a boy in the back. Your age, actually. Picked him up at the anti-International Trade Federation protest just now.”
“Really?” says Alex. “Is he cute?”
John leans forward. “As a matter of fact, the yearbook staff of W.E.B. DuBois High School informed me the other day that I am officially the cutest guy in the school.”
There’s a pause of a half second, and then Alex says, “You… you go to DuBois? Oh my God, are you John Laurens? Sir, did you arrest John Laurens?!”
“I did no such thing,” Washington says, realizing, belatedly, that maybe taking this call was not such a good idea. The GPS directs him down a sidestreet, and he follows the instructions with half an ear.
“Yeah, that’s me,” says John, “but I still can’t figure out who you are-- did we have class together or something?”
“No, never. I’m Alex Washington. We have, uh, a mutual friend on the yearbook staff, who has told me quite a bit about you. But what they totally failed to mention to me is that you were involved in social justice and protesting my least favorite trade organization in the entire world!”
“Oh my God, isn’t the ITF just, like, the worst--”
“Definitely the worst. In fact, how about you, me, and our mutual friend grab coffee after school on Wednesday and talk about how the worst they are?”
“What,” Washington whispers.
“Turn left,” says the GPS. Washington turns.
“Just the three of us?” says John, beaming. “It’s a date.”
“Cool, I’ll see you then, John.”
Washington splutters incoherently.
“Can’t wait. And hey, congrats on your debate thing!”
“Me neither! And thanks!”
The GPS announces, “Your destination is on the right.”
“Okay, this is where I live, so I gotta go…” John opens the car door.
“Oh, darn. Well, see you soon!”
“See you soon, Alex.” John waves cheerily at Washington as he walks up the drive, Washington’s hands slack on the steering wheel in stunned disbelief.
"Wow, son, you move fast," he says at last, to the empty air. “What exactly just happened?”
“A good thing, sir,” comes Alex's voice, sounding if anything more smug than he had announcing his victory. “A very good thing.”