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The weather was setting in, and the closer to December the city gained, the more 'cheerful' it tried to be. There was exciting things around the corner of course; Thanksgiving, the Macy's Day Parade, and then, onward to Christmas and all its splendar. For now, it was nothing but cold and slightly oppressive. It was the chill that causes your throat to ache if you breathe in too deeply, like swallowing large hunks of ice in one gulp, getting it stuck, and trying to repeat the process. Breath catches, turning into whisps of white that tendril up into nothingness, and everyone hugs their scarves, and the collars of their jackets, all the tighter around their throats. The rains had ceased, but there was a well known aroma in the air that snow was not far away.
The evening rush was about to begin, with people leaving their offices, and others coming on board to work their shifts. A group of people were walking up and down the sidewalks, blocks at a time, handing out flyers of a crisp white, with red and black print. Sometimes, they would be accepted. Sometimes, people would stop and actually converse about the paper's topic. But most times, they would be ignored, balled up, tossed aside, or would be met with utter disgust.
*
Wilson Fisk, with several of his entourage in tow, treads out of Fisk Towers onto the bustling street. He spies down the sidewalk in both directions, and, with a rather tight-lipped, nearly brusque smile, gives a nod towards a recognizable reporter lingering outside his building. "I'm sorry, Nathan," he offers with a note of apology in his tone, "we still have no comment on the status of the Park. We have many in our city who have willing opened their wallets and their hearts, but until Council proceeds with the motion," he shrugs. There's nothing more to be done.
But with those words spoken, and the young reporter, at least, momentarily, satiated, he slips towards one of the people handing out flyers. "Good evening," he offers as he lifts his hat — a friendly response to the flyer.
*
"S'for a good cause. Y'all feel free t'take part." A dark skinned girl with massive hair offers out to those she had just handed a paper to. The couple murmur to one another, and head off, only for the girl to call after them in a rushed after thought. "Don' f'get t'tell y'friends!" Her hand cupping beside her mouth to allow the volume to carry, she then allows that arm to fall slack by her side and swing loosely. Her lips purse briefly, and all the more so when she watches the same couple toss the flyer into a near by bin. Huffing out her lips, she mutters something to herself, in French, before turning and jumping at the sudden arrival of the stately, almost regal, figure that is Wilson Fisk.
"Oh! M'sorry. I didn' see y'sneakin' up on me." She beams, her cheeks rounding out, and dark eyes squinting into pleasantly shaped crescents. "Good evenin' t'y', too, sir. Would y'care t'take a flyer wit y'? S'for a good cause, n'wit de holidays comin' up, might be jus' what dis city needs." The lanky girl in aged clothing, and an oversized sweater-jacket, holds one of the papers out for Fisk to now see.
It reads: Peace Rally in Harlem. Battle against injustice and ignorance with humility and humanity. Donations accepted. All proceeds will go toward the children of Harlem, Hell's Kitchen, and the Bronx.
*
Fisk's eyes scan the sheet and he offers the girl a small smile, in turn. There's something pensive in his gaze; a quiet consideration behind his eyes invites further discussion. His lips turn up higher, and his chin drops. "I suspect," he offers lowly, "that you could use more publicity than a simple flyer campaign." His eyes twinkle with unmarred mischief and just a hint of playfulness. He lifts a hand towards Nathan, the reporter, silently urging him over. "Nathan," his lips twitch as he motions towards Lynette, "this young lady is engaging in some rather important work. As we're all aware," his tone suggests there's no room for dissension on this point, "things have been rather divisive in our fair city as of late. Anything to draw people together seems like something Jameson's paper should be publishing."
The beanpole that is Nathan Bridger manages a smile and a flit of his eyes behind coke-bottle glasses. "Well, Sir," he offers with a chuckle, "it seems you don't know my Editor well…"
"Ah. But," Fisk lifts a finger to draw further attention, "should Jameson desire bigger stories from," his head ticks towards Fisk Towers, "occasional promotion of important causes seems apt." He turns towards Lynette," Do you agree, Miss — " he never got her name.
*
"Lynette." She answers without pause. "M'name's Lynette, sir." Her arm is still out, fingers holding to the top of the paper, but once he doesn't reach for it, she draws her limb back and down, allowing it to relax. She may have been at this all day. "Oh, ah…I don' know 'bout dat, sir. Y'met dat man? Jameson?" She questions, as her nose wrinkles and her upper lip snarls ever so slightly. "I don' want dis boy gettin' int' trouble f'dis." Swallowing, she glances down the street, watching as a couple others keep at their work as well.
"'sides, dis all w'could afford at de moment. Ain't a bad idea t'all, n' I 'gree dat more people knowin'd be nice. Get us outta de cold, 'nyway. But…Jameson ain't 'xactly de nicest man in de world." Another frown, and an apologetic expression, she then offers the large figure a kind, thankful smile.
*
"Indeed," Fisk offers with a chuckle about Jameson. "I have actually met John Jonah Jameson, and despite his general dislike for Spider-Man, the man understands how to sell papers." His lifts his eyebrows at Bridger. "Let Jameson know that if he publishes information about this rally, I'll give you, and by extension, him," his smile turns sly, "an exclusive." And an important one at that.
Bridger shoots Lynette a smile and nod of appreciate, "Yeah, he's a tough boss. Not a bad boss, exactly, but definitely tough."
His hands retreat into the pockets of his trench coat. "So, check in with him, Bridger, and if this is in the paper, I'll offer something better." As far as Lynette's current condition, the smile softens, "Well, I feel that my lovely Vanessa would support your endeavours. I'll see to it that you receive whatever you require. I have little experience with Peace Rallies, but I can fund coffee, hot chocolate, tea, and snacks if they are helpful."
"I will, sir. And, Mister Fisk? Can I get a hint as to what the exclusive will be? It'll make it an easier pitch…" plus it'll help Bridger form a byline before the story even takes root.
"Well," Fisk's eyes turn up to the New York skyline, "our efforts to help the police establish a super-human-cantered police force, of course."
*
Lynette grins back to Bridger, and hands him one of her slips of paper. "Best a'luck to y', honey." Now, she hugs around her stack, cradling it against her chest and giving a sudden shiver as if the cold had finally reached her. The offer of aid, any aid, causes her eyes to widen. "Y-really? Y-yeah! Dat'd be real nice. T'anks, Mr. Fisk. If y'wanna, y'c'n tell y'wife dat she c'n give me a hollar at de Cigar Factory in Harlem. Jus' give us a ring 'n I'll answer. Give'er de details if she wants."
Turning one more, her grin passes to those down the street, and she even gives them a slight wave, as if something good was finally happening today. Turning back around, her expression falls a bit once Fisk mentions something that floats into the girl's head as 'super-human' and 'police force'. "Um, m'sorry, Mr. Fisk, but…what's dat mean? 'bout de people wit powers?"
*
As Bridger leaves, he's given a small nod from the businessman. The understanding is clear. "I will be sure to do so Lynette. Vanessa is very invested in our community. We live here. We work here. We want our community to thrive." With another twitch of his lips, a not-quite-there smile he manages a vague shrug of his shoulders. "Things have been tense as of late, and we need to see change in our city."
His own smile falters at the question about the police force. "Well, Lynette," his speech slows as he attempts to explain the situation. "For some years, Council has debated having a special police force devoted to more super-human cases, and, unfortunately, recent events have suggested its importance." He inhales a sharp breath, "But, such a force would combine the efforts of those without abilities with those with. Already the proposal has made second reading to Council, and, it seems that it will likely pass."
*
"Dey have, n'I agree wit dat. S'crazy times, n'well, s'lotta hate jus' waitin' to boil over n'burn ev'rybody." Another smile, she sways a bit in place and moves her feet, trying to drive some warning circulation through her petite form. "M'lookin' forward t'workin' wit y'wife, Mr. Fisk. Appreciat all de help we c'n get. I mean dat."
Then, he continues explaining what she had asked about. She nods, and then nods again. "S'progressive. N'well, I hope dey ain't bein' mistreated, dough. S'fair, makin' sure laws're bein' able t'be upheld by dos dat break it. M'sorry for askin'. S'mtimes, when dealin' wit d'police? T'ings get a bit scary. 'specially if y'diff'rent."
*
"Well, the hope is that the taskforce will engage people who are different." Fisk shrugs lightly. "New York doesn't have a system to cope with the current…" he debates the word and lands on, "…climate of our world. The antiquated police force means that vigilantes have had to step up. But it's time that we address the problem through constitutionally-legal means. Our police force needs to respond to the needs of its citizens."
"Of course…" he slows again "…it's still a work in progress and citizens' voices are respected in the process. I, for one, am not a member of Council, but have been a proponent of dealing with illegality through legal means. That is why we have a police force — to protect our citizens and maintain some semblance of order."
*
"N-no, no. I get dat. M'sorry f'ah…makin' y'confused. I jus' meant dat, I hope dat dese new cops ain't gonna be, well, brutal. S'm let deir power jus' go to deir head n'do what dey wan' 'cause dey de law. Dat's what I meant by sayin' s'scary 'round cops if y'diff'rent. I like de idea of havin' a more even playin' field, specially 'round people dat're breakin' de law wit powers." Nibbling her lower lip, she gazes up at Fisk and seems to study his features in silence.
"I worry, dough. I worry dey might t'ink 'xcessive force is de only force t'use." She murmurs gently, her voice genuine with concern. "Guess we jus' have t'see. Won' we, Mr. Fisk?"
*
"Seems we will, Lynette," Fisk returns softly. "The goal is to keep the peace. Order demands we respond somehow. The police were incredibly under-equipped to deal with what happened in Central Park. They are equally unequipped to cope with the riots currently taking place across the city." He pauses thoughtfully and looks towards his entourage still lingering by Fisk Towers, "It's time we make them equipped."
He shoots her a small smile. "But, as in all things, we need policies and procedures to maintain some semblance of credibility amongst our police force."
*
"D'y' b'lieve me if I told y'dat s'mt'ings y'jus' c'n' be pr'pared for?" When he looks away, she does, too. Glancing at those that walk with him, behind him, around him, before her attentions return to the main attraction. "I hope y'right. N'I hope de proc'dures n' policies stick. Dey's lotta fixin' dat needs t'happen in de world, Mr. Fisk. I guess y'gotta start s'mwhere." Reaching up a trembling hand, the girl moves to tuck away some stray kinks behind the shell of her ear. "S'cold," she comments, her form giving another tremor. "Y'don' have t'stand out here, jawwin' wit me, y'know? Don' wan' y'gettin' sick. Don' t'ink de misses'll f'give y'." She grins and winks, even offering the man a soft giggle.
*
"Well, I am kind of being summoned. Albeit, silently," Fisk's head ticks back towards his entourage. "As is their job. Vanessa does like to ensure I am home in ample time for supper. Some things a husband should always make for his beloved wife." He manages a vague shrug, "I am a lucky man for it. I would dare not complain." He reaches into his pocket and draws out a business card, "However, Lynette," because he never caught her last name, "please feel free to call my office and let me know if you have anything you require for your peace rally. We'd be happy to promote it for you, and to make a donation for the children." After disposing of his card, he slips back towards his bodyguards to head home to his, very beloved wife.