another day older and deeper in debt

[civilobedience]

Who: The Militia, and the citizens of Baedal.
What: Moments in time.
Where: All around the city.
When: Over the course of this week.
Notes: This post is the activity mentioned here - there were enough volunteers to do asides tailored to specific volunteer characters, but if you'd like to have your character witness something in here, or hear about something after the fact and react to it, you are more than free to. Just keep in mind that these are for read-and-react, not confrontations: if your character picks a fight they will be arrested. These are examples of normal events that happen every day in Baedal.
Warnings: Bigotry, xenophobia, harassment, references to police brutality, endless creepy patronizing bullshit.

Day in and day out, the Militia has a presence in Baedal. Many are plain-clothed officers, watching, waiting. In times of strife, more and more uniformed agents appear amongst the citizens, reminding Baedal that she is protected. (That she is ruled.) For most, this is simply the way things are, and always have been – if you follow the rules, and if you shun those who don't, your life is unaffected. Maybe you decide not to vote because your heart doesn't match up to what's expected of you. Maybe you keep your eyes on your feet and keep walking past a hooded authority figure matched against a defenseless civilian. Maybe you are saved, and your ardor is won forever.

It's different for everyone.

Comments

The Mog Hill-Badside border / The Dog Fenn-Badside bridge | Wolfgang Einhorn

[civilobedience]

Oh, Badside. When will you learn?

This time it isn't the main streets – they know better, in places like this. The Militia has set up three stops on popular paths from the El Train into the canton, snagging those who don't want to be snagged. Some people run when they see the abrupt appearance of hooded figures, materializing as if from the shadows, barricades and all – but most quell their desire to flee, and forge ahead, mimicking cattle. It's safer to slink by the side of a lion than to attempt to outrun her.

Someone in the thick of the anxious-quiet crowd being kettled clutches his CiD and whispers, “Go to the woman! My girlfriend, she said go to the woman.” As if anyone has a choice in this mess where to go – but the tide shifts, desperate and desperate not to look desperate, and then Wolfgang is suddenly in front of a woman in full Militia regalia. She takes his CiD to scan it for validity, and when his cohort name pops up, she pulls him over to search him. Another two agents loom nearby as a third takes her place maintaining the line, but they're paying more attention to the crowd.

One pocket, then another, his jacket, his trousers. When she pulls out the container, she doesn't say anything, or ask him what it is. She stares at it for a while, expression a mystery behind her mask. A minute ticks by, then another as she unscrews the top, picks up his CiD again, flips through her own. There is conflict in her posture.

Maintaining an eerie silence, she puts it back in his jacket pocket, returns his CiD, and clears him to leave.

[gramarye]

It happens so fast that Wolfgang doesn't even have time to turn and walk away, which he would have if he'd been coming up the street and seen the Militia checkpoint already assembled. He already knows he won't make it through. He just got back from seeing Kahnde -- the fresh bottle in his pocket is full of his new prescription, a new atypical antipsychotic that thus far has tolerable side effects and is much cheaper to get through his friend than to try to pay for out of pocket. They may not be able to tell who got it, but they will know it didn't come from one of the ExproAuth's stelanmancers.

He has a terrified moment where he thinks maybe this is for him. But if they just wanted him, they know where he lives; they would have just come to his house and found everything they needed to haul him back to...

It doesn't escape his notice that it's because of the cohort that they single him out. He starts to sweat.

He's panicking and stress is an invitation to Quiet. He's not quite there, he's on a lot of medication and it helps, but his environment warps in response to his distress: other people's CiDs and other electronic equipment go out of whack, throwing feedback. It can't be traced back to him and he's not even aware that it's him, but he is aware that he's busted. They'll find it and he looks guilty, sweating and shaking and very pale, nearly grey. His heart feels like it's going to leap out of his throat and his stomach is going to drop out from under him. He can't even look at her. He won't go back to jail, he won't go, he'll sell all his stuff, blank his CiD, run to the Spatters --

But she's waving him on.

He doesn't even process it until he's halfway down the block, and he's all the way down the street before he starts letting himself freak out. He's through the back door of his house before he starts crying.

A few hours later, he's on the couch in the dim evening light, face washed, fairly drunk considering this bottle of red started out three-quarters full, and it occurs to him: Why? He wasn't randomly searched. If they pulled him because of his brand, they wouldn't let him walk off for committing the same crime. If they pulled him because of his cohort, he would have given them an excellent reason to paint them all as lawbreaking troublemakers. Compassion? Maybe. He's not sure he has enough faith left in cops for that, but...

He sits on it for a while, but decides after a few days he'll tell someone. Maybe talking it out will help.