A ripple of quiet spreads out from one side of the station as the audio chips suddenly fade out, as if they’ve been dampened. The protesters’ voices sound hollow without them, too warm, too varied without their mechanical accompaniment, and even the voices are starting to falter. I can’t see shit, but I can anticipate what’s coming.
‘This is the South African Police Services,’ the announcement blasts over the PA as the protesters and the civilians all fall respectfully, no, fearfully, silent, so now we can hear the shouts from the platforms below. The toyi-toyi-ing wavers and stops as people turn expectantly to the entrance, where uniforms flanked by Aitos are descending the stairs in perfect formation.
‘This is an unlawful, unlicensed gathering. You are advised to disband immediately.’ It’s pre-recorded. Legislation bars the cops from opening their mouths unnecessarily. There’s too much room for human error, which means ammunition for the human rights groups – for all the teeth they’ve got.
It’s the same reason the cops are indistinguishable behind their flicker visors – on purpose, kids, so you can’t lay an assault charge if they beat you into submission too vigorously.
‘Repeat: You are advised to disband immediately. You are in violation of section 14(ii) of the Transport Authority Code, as well as section 11.2(vi) of the Commerce Protection Act.’
I start edging towards the lift. I’ve no intention of sticking around to see the standard spiel play all the way through.
‘Warning: If you choose not to disband immediately, it will be assumed under the Tacit Liability Act that you are fully aware of the potential repercussions of your unlawful actions and that you waive your right to seek any kind of legal recourse or financial compensation for any injuries or damages incurred in the course of law enforcement response.’
The uniforms have stopped, arranged in an invert V down the main stairwell, while the Aitos spread out through the crowd, yipping in excitement. It’s enough to inspire some of the people to disperse, mostly nervous commuters.
‘This is your last warning.’
The tension dies unexpectedly, like a battery running out of juice. It’s like the crowd collectively shrug all at once, and start disassembling peacefully and in an orderly fashion so as not to piss off the cops or, more importantly, the dogs.
But then the lift doors open and it becomes obvious the msg hasn’t reached the lower floors. Doyenne bursts out, splattered with dye, but not enough to take her out of the game, grinning like a berserker, rabid with battle lust. I’m close enough to see the purple smear over her mouth, as if she’s wiped the back of her hand across it. She grins wider and launches into the painfully over-quoted line from Sleepers Phoenix – ‘Hi-de-ho, neighbours! I regret to inform you it’s time to die!’ before opening random fire on the crowd.
Chaos breaks out in shockwaves from the nucleus of the lifts. People drop to the ground, screaming, unaware that it’s a game, cos they’re idiots, cos you’d never mistake the sting of a dye pellet for a bullet. Others, caught in the panic, surge towards the exits. And then in one convulsive move, everyone drops to the ground, twitching, phones crackling as the defusers kick in.
Unfortunately, mine doesn’t go off, which is plenty worrying if the uniforms notice that I’m packing an illegal mod. I drop too, bit of a delayed reaction there, kids, but pay it no heed, and try to avoid the thrashing limbs all around me as I start inch-worming across the floor towards the nearest exit.
I’m not the only one unaffected. Almost none of the protesters are KFC. There are about forty of them, standing defiant in the epileptic human sea jerking around their feet.
‘And what are you going to fucking do now?’ shouts one of the protesters. The sound is amplified, distorted, but the voice sounds very familiar in its puffed-up wankery.
‘Your weapons are useless. We defy your attempts to regulate society. We’re voluntarily disconnected! Voluntarily disenfranchised! You cannot control us!’ He holds up the remains of a smashed phone, then drops it to the ground.
I catch on. It’s Tendeka and his BF surrounded by all manner of ragtag humanity; bergies and skollies and street kids who all have one thing in common – they’re homeless and phoneless. Which only means that when they call the dogs in, they’re going to be more savage than usual.
Already the cops are switching over to canister guns. It’s all strict by-the-book procedure. Verbal warning. Defuse. Dogs. It never takes more. Even the most defiant bloody-minded idiot tends to shut up and give up when facing down those teeth. Well, except for Doyenne.
By the lift, Doyenne has two Aitos attached to her, one worrying at the sleeve of her jacket, the other tugging her jeans, but she’s still laughing, still pumping slugs into the crowd and swearing soldier, clubbing alternately at the dogs’ heads with her free hand. Two pellets explode across the second dog’s flank, the trajectory coming from somewhere up high – like a ceiling hideyhole. Fuck, Twitchy. That’s a disconnect offence. I duck my head, smirking, as an Aito bounds across the spasming flesh, its paws coming down heedlessly on groins and heads.
One of the cops fires a chem cap into the thicket of the protesters, hitting Ashraf solidly in the chest, the impact knocking him back into the mass of bodies writhing on the floor.
By now, the Aitos have pulled Doyenne down, but now they look up, ears pricked forward as they pick up the telltale chem scent, and abandon their victim to bound towards the protesters.
The next bit is mess. Tendeka and his ragtag regiment yank out pangas. The first dog to reach them goes down with a meaty thwack more robust than the art thing, which goes to prove, kids, that the attack at the gallery wasn’t in aid of animal rights at all. I file this for reference. Ten’s bunnyhugger boyfriend would surely disapprove – if he wasn’t a little preoccupied drowning in a sea of thrashing limbs.
The Aito howls, but comes straight back up, its lip hanging off its jaw, exposing the teeth. The kids shriek, more horror than rage, lashing out as much to keep it at bay as anything else.
It goes down under a torrent of blows, real Rwanda.
On the stairs, one of the cops raises her baton and then lowers it again, uncertainly. Several of the others are locked in a screaming match, because this shit is way outside the bounds of procedure. People aren’t supposed to attack the dogs.
A sharp keening buzz undercuts the noise, a subsonic signal to the Aitos, which all lose interest at the same time. Together, they raise their heads, then bound back to the cops, to the tune of their master’s audio, abandoning their targets.
It’s only temporary. Trust me on this. There’s gonna be a bloodrush for sure, and it’s only going to get uglier. I’m preparing to scram, shifting my weight onto my knees so I can launch towards the exits, when something unexpected happens.
The cops wait for the dogs to reach them and then turn sharply and tromp up the stairs, withdrawing.
It’s apparent no one knows what the fuck this means. There’s a wailing from the other side of the hall, like someone has figured this can only signify heavy shit to come, but minutes pass. There’s no indication that the cops are coming back.
People scramble to their feet, helping each other up, laughing in relief, or bleating. The civilians don’t know what hit them. Even some of the gamers are displaying classic shock. Couldn’t cut it in realworld after all.
I’m already up, halfway to the exits, when runt boy peels out from behind a pillar, and tedious deluxe, sticks his gun in my gut.