Infinity Smashed: Illegal Aliens
Apr. 22nd, 2014 11:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeNot a writeathon prompt, just a freebie for fun.
Illegal Aliens
Word Count: 1605
Summary: Thomas’s family is full of cops, and some kids are stupid enough to vandalize their house.
Notes: This story takes place late in the run, during Polyverse; Raige is in college, Thomas is a working adult with his GED, and M.D. has her act together. Heads up, this story has racism in it. Also, thanks to my roommate![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aubergine_pilot who works with the cops and spot-checked the details.
M.D. woke to pre-emptive adrenaline and the faintest rays of pre-dawn sunlight coming in the window.
What had woken her? Not a nightmare. Beside her, Raige slept on, but she’d gotten used to his presence. No, it was something else; her brain wasn’t wired to wake her like this for no reason. She held still, focused on sounds, smells, anything out of the ordinary. The familiar rattling of the window air conditioner unit, the hiss outside of a sprinkler…
Wait. None of the Rodriguez family had put out a sprinkler last night, and she heard voices—
There was the bang of a door slamming open, and Thomas burst out of his room shouting and swearing, and M.D.’s Spanish wasn’t good enough yet to understand all the words, but the urgency required no translation. She bolted from bed after him while Raige stirred and went, “Mmwha?”
Ms. Rodriguez was also on her feet, hair in a net and a baseball bat in her hand. The three of them banged through the screen door.
There were three teenagers on the stoop, armed with spray cans, but they’d heard the racket and were already scattering into the pre-dawn grayness. Thomas and his mother gave chase, but M.D. didn’t bother. She glanced at the half-finished graffiti (“GO BACK”), rolled her eyes, and bent to grab a rock from a potted cactus on the porch.
M.D. was not known for her physical prowess, but her night vision was good, and her aim was better. The rock caught the last of the boys in the legs, wrecking his stride and sending him crashing to the pavement. Thomas got there first, and for a moment, it looked like he might hit him, but then Ms. Rodriguez got there and shoved him off. M.D. only caught half the Spanish, but it seemed to boil down to, “Don’t; go cool off.”
Then Ms. Rodriguez held the vandal down and switched to English. “The hell is wrong with you?”
M.D. jogged over where Thomas stood in his boxers, arms crossed, face stone.
“Hey.”
He glanced up, and his expression softened back to the familiar. “Thanks for the trip.”
“Any time.”
Ms. Rodriguez ignored them both. Her fatigue seemed to keep her from getting properly angry, but she was certainly annoyed. “I’m a cop, you idiots. You just tagged a cop’s house and woke her up at—I don’t even know what time it is—you’re lucky I didn’t come out with a gun. Mijo, get my phone.”
Thomas didn’t look particularly eager, so M.D. nudged him in the ribs with her elbow to get him moving, and turned and stalked back to the house, quickly enough that M.D. had to trot to keep up.
“She wants me out of the way,” he said.
In his aggravation, he spoke in Spanish; M.D.’s speaking skills lagged behind her comprehension so she kept with English. “She doesn’t want a conflict of interest.”
“Oh, like anyone would charge her for clobbering some racist asshole…”
“Let’s not give your mom a bigger headache than she’s already got. If you’d like, I can set him on fire or something, I don’t think your mom knows I can do that…”
“Forget it. You couldn’t anyway.”
They were back at the house. The rest of the family was up. Christopher was eyeing the graffiti and shaking his head. Mr. Rodriguez, dressed in a bathrobe and rubbing his lower back, had the cordless phone in his hand and was apparently talking to the on-duty police. Though both looked disgusted, the overriding attitude was one of weary resignation.
“Does this happen often?” M.D. asked Thomas.
“Sometimes. Dad does a lot of work with other first-gen folks, ESL classes, that kind of stuff. Really brings the racists out…”
Raige was standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and apparently still half-asleep. “Huh? Wha’ happened?”
“Assholes happened, man,” Thomas replied, and flopped down on the cement porch with a groan.
Christopher sidled up. His expression was one of acute discomfort. “Uh, guys?”
Thomas and Mr. Rodriguez looked up.
Christopher looked away. Without his glasses, his eyes looked all the more tired. “I think this might be my fault.”
“No it’s not,” Thomas retorted.
Mr. Rodriguez hushed him with a glance. “How so?”
“I got in a fight with some guys in my social studies class yesterday.”
“Immigration debate?”
“Yeah.”
Mr. Rodriguez sighed. “We can talk about that later, if you like, but unless you put the cans in their hand and dragged them here, it’s not your fault.”
The flashing police lights showed up then, which was just as well. There was a quick, quiet exchange of words and reports; it was obvious everyone had done this before. Everybody looked tired and annoyed, except Raige, who was tired and confused, and the vandal, who looked petrified, and not a little relieved to get away from a family of irate cops and gun-owners.
“Sorry to hear this happened,” the officer said to Ms. Rodriguez. “We’ll keep him a bit, see what we can do. Get some sleep, Marcia.”
“Thanks, Sal,” she said, rubbing her face. “See you at six.”
“See you at six.”
The cruiser drove off, and Ms. Rodriguez started ushering the family back inside. “Come on, back to bed, all of you.”
“But what about—” Thomas started, but she held up her hand.
“It’ll wait,” she said. “We have work in the morning, Christopher has school.”
“They sprayed a big fucking KKK on the garage!”
Ms. Rodriguez rubbed her forehead. “Did they? Well, thank God it was closed then. Let Sal take care of it, and go to bed.”
“They aren’t going to do anything! They never do anything—”
But Ms. Rodriguez was apparently too tired to hang around for the rant. The screen door shut behind her with a clatter, leaving Thomas, M.D., and Raige outside. Thomas stood glaring at the half-finished graffiti.
“Really?” M.D. asked. “Your mom is a cop, I figure hate crime…”
Thomas snorted. “Half-finished graffiti done by some kids? Come on. They’re going to claim they were just joking around, that it’s no big deal, just stupid kids writing stupid words, and they’ll get a slap on the wrist ‘cause y’know, boys are boys and we don’t want folks thinking they’re racist or anything, might ruin their futures…” He held up his hands, shook them, then let them fall slack to his sides with a sigh. “Forget it. I’m going back to bed.”
He pushed by Raige and trudged back into the house. M.D. didn’t follow; she just stared at the spray paint.
“You going back in?” Raige asked. His voice was only slightly bleary; he’d finally woken up.
“No—wait. Yes, but…” She shoved past him and darted into the house, but she didn’t return to the guest room. She hit the kitchen, digging around under the sink.
“What’re you looking for?” Raige asked, stooping to peer over her shoulder.
“A bucket. God, what do you use to get white paint off brick? Will soap even work?”
“Power washer, if it’s not too late,” Raige said. When M.D. craned her neck to stare up at him, he shrugged. “We got tagged by the Temperance League once.”
“Those still exist? I don’t think they’ve got a washer, and I’m not bothering them to ask.” She dug a five-gallon bucket out of the cabinet and filled it with soap and hot water. When she turned, Raige had come up with a couple sponges.
“I don’t have class till three-thirty today,” he said, ducking his head.
“Good.” Refusing his offered hand, she dragged the heavy bucket outside, dumped it on the driveway with water sloshing over the rim, snatched the sponge, and started scrubbing fiercely at the paint. Raige watched her for a moment, then joined her.
“Personal?” He asked, scrubbing up high.
M.D. was scouring so viciously that it gave her words a rhythm. “I’m the illegal alien. I’m the one who got deported. I’m the one who used up local resources and stole jobs and took years to learn frogging English and whatever else it is those people complain about. You have any idea how many tax dollars I consumed in the foster care system? I’m, like, frogging poster child for the failed immigrant, but nobody ever attacked me for it.”
The paint was only barely coming off. She kicked at the wall, then scrubbed with renewed vigor.
“Hey.”
Raige and M.D. turned. Thomas had come back out, and he didn’t look angry anymore, just tired.
“Y’all don’t got to do that, guys. Come on.”
M.D. kept scrubbing. “Yes I do.”
Thomas came over and gently took the sponge from her hand. “It ain’t coming off. And anyway, leave it. They might need photos and stuff later.”
M.D. was fluttering her hands, looking upset. “But—”
“M.D. Stop.”
She stopped, ducking her head behind her bangs. “I just hate that you guys get this stuff. I was lucky. What with the hair and all, the worst I ever had to deal with was the, ‘me love you long time’ comments.”
Thomas came and patted her on the back. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s just paint. Dad’s a wizard with cleaning, I’m sure he’ll get it off…”
Raige was silent.
M.D. looked up at him. “Never thought about it, huh?”
“No,” he admitted. He sounded guilty. “I’ve never had to deal with it. I’m sorry you guys have to.”
Thomas pulled him into a group hug. “It’s okay. Just racists being racists. Come on. Let’s go back to bed.”
They did, and this time, they all stayed in the same bed.
Illegal Aliens
Word Count: 1605
Summary: Thomas’s family is full of cops, and some kids are stupid enough to vandalize their house.
Notes: This story takes place late in the run, during Polyverse; Raige is in college, Thomas is a working adult with his GED, and M.D. has her act together. Heads up, this story has racism in it. Also, thanks to my roommate
aubergine_pilot who works with the cops and spot-checked the details.M.D. woke to pre-emptive adrenaline and the faintest rays of pre-dawn sunlight coming in the window.
What had woken her? Not a nightmare. Beside her, Raige slept on, but she’d gotten used to his presence. No, it was something else; her brain wasn’t wired to wake her like this for no reason. She held still, focused on sounds, smells, anything out of the ordinary. The familiar rattling of the window air conditioner unit, the hiss outside of a sprinkler…
Wait. None of the Rodriguez family had put out a sprinkler last night, and she heard voices—
There was the bang of a door slamming open, and Thomas burst out of his room shouting and swearing, and M.D.’s Spanish wasn’t good enough yet to understand all the words, but the urgency required no translation. She bolted from bed after him while Raige stirred and went, “Mmwha?”
Ms. Rodriguez was also on her feet, hair in a net and a baseball bat in her hand. The three of them banged through the screen door.
There were three teenagers on the stoop, armed with spray cans, but they’d heard the racket and were already scattering into the pre-dawn grayness. Thomas and his mother gave chase, but M.D. didn’t bother. She glanced at the half-finished graffiti (“GO BACK”), rolled her eyes, and bent to grab a rock from a potted cactus on the porch.
M.D. was not known for her physical prowess, but her night vision was good, and her aim was better. The rock caught the last of the boys in the legs, wrecking his stride and sending him crashing to the pavement. Thomas got there first, and for a moment, it looked like he might hit him, but then Ms. Rodriguez got there and shoved him off. M.D. only caught half the Spanish, but it seemed to boil down to, “Don’t; go cool off.”
Then Ms. Rodriguez held the vandal down and switched to English. “The hell is wrong with you?”
M.D. jogged over where Thomas stood in his boxers, arms crossed, face stone.
“Hey.”
He glanced up, and his expression softened back to the familiar. “Thanks for the trip.”
“Any time.”
Ms. Rodriguez ignored them both. Her fatigue seemed to keep her from getting properly angry, but she was certainly annoyed. “I’m a cop, you idiots. You just tagged a cop’s house and woke her up at—I don’t even know what time it is—you’re lucky I didn’t come out with a gun. Mijo, get my phone.”
Thomas didn’t look particularly eager, so M.D. nudged him in the ribs with her elbow to get him moving, and turned and stalked back to the house, quickly enough that M.D. had to trot to keep up.
“She wants me out of the way,” he said.
In his aggravation, he spoke in Spanish; M.D.’s speaking skills lagged behind her comprehension so she kept with English. “She doesn’t want a conflict of interest.”
“Oh, like anyone would charge her for clobbering some racist asshole…”
“Let’s not give your mom a bigger headache than she’s already got. If you’d like, I can set him on fire or something, I don’t think your mom knows I can do that…”
“Forget it. You couldn’t anyway.”
They were back at the house. The rest of the family was up. Christopher was eyeing the graffiti and shaking his head. Mr. Rodriguez, dressed in a bathrobe and rubbing his lower back, had the cordless phone in his hand and was apparently talking to the on-duty police. Though both looked disgusted, the overriding attitude was one of weary resignation.
“Does this happen often?” M.D. asked Thomas.
“Sometimes. Dad does a lot of work with other first-gen folks, ESL classes, that kind of stuff. Really brings the racists out…”
Raige was standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and apparently still half-asleep. “Huh? Wha’ happened?”
“Assholes happened, man,” Thomas replied, and flopped down on the cement porch with a groan.
Christopher sidled up. His expression was one of acute discomfort. “Uh, guys?”
Thomas and Mr. Rodriguez looked up.
Christopher looked away. Without his glasses, his eyes looked all the more tired. “I think this might be my fault.”
“No it’s not,” Thomas retorted.
Mr. Rodriguez hushed him with a glance. “How so?”
“I got in a fight with some guys in my social studies class yesterday.”
“Immigration debate?”
“Yeah.”
Mr. Rodriguez sighed. “We can talk about that later, if you like, but unless you put the cans in their hand and dragged them here, it’s not your fault.”
The flashing police lights showed up then, which was just as well. There was a quick, quiet exchange of words and reports; it was obvious everyone had done this before. Everybody looked tired and annoyed, except Raige, who was tired and confused, and the vandal, who looked petrified, and not a little relieved to get away from a family of irate cops and gun-owners.
“Sorry to hear this happened,” the officer said to Ms. Rodriguez. “We’ll keep him a bit, see what we can do. Get some sleep, Marcia.”
“Thanks, Sal,” she said, rubbing her face. “See you at six.”
“See you at six.”
The cruiser drove off, and Ms. Rodriguez started ushering the family back inside. “Come on, back to bed, all of you.”
“But what about—” Thomas started, but she held up her hand.
“It’ll wait,” she said. “We have work in the morning, Christopher has school.”
“They sprayed a big fucking KKK on the garage!”
Ms. Rodriguez rubbed her forehead. “Did they? Well, thank God it was closed then. Let Sal take care of it, and go to bed.”
“They aren’t going to do anything! They never do anything—”
But Ms. Rodriguez was apparently too tired to hang around for the rant. The screen door shut behind her with a clatter, leaving Thomas, M.D., and Raige outside. Thomas stood glaring at the half-finished graffiti.
“Really?” M.D. asked. “Your mom is a cop, I figure hate crime…”
Thomas snorted. “Half-finished graffiti done by some kids? Come on. They’re going to claim they were just joking around, that it’s no big deal, just stupid kids writing stupid words, and they’ll get a slap on the wrist ‘cause y’know, boys are boys and we don’t want folks thinking they’re racist or anything, might ruin their futures…” He held up his hands, shook them, then let them fall slack to his sides with a sigh. “Forget it. I’m going back to bed.”
He pushed by Raige and trudged back into the house. M.D. didn’t follow; she just stared at the spray paint.
“You going back in?” Raige asked. His voice was only slightly bleary; he’d finally woken up.
“No—wait. Yes, but…” She shoved past him and darted into the house, but she didn’t return to the guest room. She hit the kitchen, digging around under the sink.
“What’re you looking for?” Raige asked, stooping to peer over her shoulder.
“A bucket. God, what do you use to get white paint off brick? Will soap even work?”
“Power washer, if it’s not too late,” Raige said. When M.D. craned her neck to stare up at him, he shrugged. “We got tagged by the Temperance League once.”
“Those still exist? I don’t think they’ve got a washer, and I’m not bothering them to ask.” She dug a five-gallon bucket out of the cabinet and filled it with soap and hot water. When she turned, Raige had come up with a couple sponges.
“I don’t have class till three-thirty today,” he said, ducking his head.
“Good.” Refusing his offered hand, she dragged the heavy bucket outside, dumped it on the driveway with water sloshing over the rim, snatched the sponge, and started scrubbing fiercely at the paint. Raige watched her for a moment, then joined her.
“Personal?” He asked, scrubbing up high.
M.D. was scouring so viciously that it gave her words a rhythm. “I’m the illegal alien. I’m the one who got deported. I’m the one who used up local resources and stole jobs and took years to learn frogging English and whatever else it is those people complain about. You have any idea how many tax dollars I consumed in the foster care system? I’m, like, frogging poster child for the failed immigrant, but nobody ever attacked me for it.”
The paint was only barely coming off. She kicked at the wall, then scrubbed with renewed vigor.
“Hey.”
Raige and M.D. turned. Thomas had come back out, and he didn’t look angry anymore, just tired.
“Y’all don’t got to do that, guys. Come on.”
M.D. kept scrubbing. “Yes I do.”
Thomas came over and gently took the sponge from her hand. “It ain’t coming off. And anyway, leave it. They might need photos and stuff later.”
M.D. was fluttering her hands, looking upset. “But—”
“M.D. Stop.”
She stopped, ducking her head behind her bangs. “I just hate that you guys get this stuff. I was lucky. What with the hair and all, the worst I ever had to deal with was the, ‘me love you long time’ comments.”
Thomas came and patted her on the back. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s just paint. Dad’s a wizard with cleaning, I’m sure he’ll get it off…”
Raige was silent.
M.D. looked up at him. “Never thought about it, huh?”
“No,” he admitted. He sounded guilty. “I’ve never had to deal with it. I’m sorry you guys have to.”
Thomas pulled him into a group hug. “It’s okay. Just racists being racists. Come on. Let’s go back to bed.”
They did, and this time, they all stayed in the same bed.
Re: this is a silly comment
Date: 2014-04-23 06:41 pm (UTC)--Rogan