"Die mad, Fancy,"
indigo lips taunted calmly down toward a ginger lookalike of Reba McEntire lining the protest route, Ellie's wide eyes and raised brow inviting the hateful woman to make a move beyond following her down the sidewalk and jabbing a finger at her face. Ellie couldn't hear her anyway, her ear buds thumping at full volume with Enola Gay
by 'Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark.' This camel-toed bitch wasn't going to get to her, of that the mutant confirmed silently in mind, determined to remain calm and not get riled, continuing to chew her gum and refusing to further acknowledge petty Reba shadowing them.
At some point, Ellie had to stop and consider whether she needed to be here or not. The turnout today was legendary and the notion of possibly standing with a majority felt foreign and considerably dull to boot. But the haters had shown up in due time, re-cementing her desire to be here, to throttle them, to show she wasn't afraid, and to stand up for what is right.
This shit was getting old. Actually, no, it wasn't. Nega enjoyed standing against the tide. It was more accurate to say it was getting more and more common
. She had at one point considered fashioning her protest signs with velcro so she could just replace the message on the same piece of poster board each protest. Her last sign was so creased and dilapidated that Phimister just left it home today, she instead finding herself atop a tall mutant's shoulders this afternoon with her fist in air.
Black boot heels bounced gently on the tall fellow's abs as they slowly jostled in the crowd, her black, denim jeans climbing up legs to meet a mustard colored tank top printed with a totem pole and 'Camp Funtime' emblazoned over it on the front. As per her usual, black eye makeup and fingernails completed the ensemble, a host of silver stud earrings festooning her ears and a modest, silver ring adorning her septum.
The crow's nest view held an advantage for Nega in this crowd, her squat height historically relegating her to the B.O. stench level. She didn't know the guy attached to these shoulders before today, but he'd graciously pulled her out of a bottleneck earlier when she was separated from Lana and set her up there like a pet cat. Ellie didn't object.
Concern stitched it's way across her brow suddenly, her high eyes' peripheral vision scoping out a wave of turmoil to side making it's way across the burgeoning crowd, heading strait toward them. Yanking her buds from ears, Ellie reached down and patted his chest and yelled into his ears over the noisy chants, "We need to get high or get trampled!"
She pointing in the direction it was coming, he looked confused and was about to have her repeat herself, but it was too late.
A rogue wave of bodies crashed into them, skulls and ribs crunching beneath the pressure, her own legs getting pinned to his torso as they were all shoved toward a building like sea debris. It was neverending, screams of panic and desperation screeching into every ear, fear and confusion soiling every face. At the side walk, a line of people were upended over the curb, trash receptacles, newspaper bins, Ellie being tossed from her benefactor's shoulders as he went down hard.
Scampering up as best she could, the tide of bodies again swept her up before smashing her into a wall. Knocking the air from her, Nega gasped continuously for oxygen into the back of a stranger but no air obliged. She wanted to fire up a kinetic shield, push them away or incinerate them in the process, to give herself some space to breathe, but she knew better than that. Damn Piotr and his square ass influence. There was nowhere to go, no place to move without severely hurting someone else with her powers.
The first, faint breaths of oxygen found her lungs following long seconds without, the side of Ellie's face beginning to scrape into the brownstone facade of the building pinning her between it and the larger, red-headed woman pressing into her anterior. It all happened so fast, what the fuck? Wait.... was this angry, fucking Reba, all smelling like White Rain and Dress Barn, flattening her into a #000000 fruit roll-up?
OH, HELL NO.