Lieutenant Jack is back. (gardai) wrote in mnhttnprjct, @ 2010-03-13 16:22:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !narrative |
2027.
WHO: Lieutenant Jack McCarthy and the SWAT Teams of the 81st Precinct.
WHAT: White riots get deadly.
WHERE: North side of District 3 (formerly North Brooklyn), New York.
WHEN: Spring, 2027.
RATING: R for language and violence.
By now, the precinct has it down to an exact science: spot a bunch of neo-hippies singing Kumbaya arm-in-arm during your first roll around the block on patrol; by the second, there’s usually a cluster of agitated neighbors telling them to step off the noise. Third and “telling” becomes “scrapping” and you’re out of the cop car, which is exactly when McCarthy has to hear about it. Sometimes it’s just small shit but this time called for back-up – and not your usual type, either. “Some little shit just shy of seventeen has a fucking gun!” Galloway says over the radio. “We need Riot, stat!” So he’s riding in the cop car, megaphone in hand while a fleet of SWAT are bee-lining it close behind. Her wonders if this is going to be one of those “gatherings” where the lines betray that something’s happening a few blocks down or if the entire affair is going to broadside the cars. It turns out to be the latter; he turns the corner and a wall of fists and screaming are already erupting in the middle of the street. McCarthy doesn’t think twice as soon as his chauffeur breaks to a screeching halt – it’s out of the car and mouth to the speaker, hoping the four letters he’s about to shout out stop the writhing mass of hissing, spitting, and punching madmen from harming themselves anymore. “NYPD.” It’s only some of them who have the sense to scatter, but there’s more incentive to get the fuck out of Dodge as bullets rip out into the crowd. Some shriek; others fall unwittingly into the gutter, never seeing their death coming. Still more are ground into a stampede as the shots continue to ring out between the brownstones. It’s hard for Jack to think of the consequences that come with the bullet that whizzes past his ear as he ducks behind the door, but they come back to him sure enough as soon as he steps through the door and straight into a cacophony of shrieks punctuated by the jabs of a pointy finger. |