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pulsar4529.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
crack_van2005-09-14 11:05 pm
pulsar4529.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2005-09-14 11:05 pm
Chicago, 1968 by Melanie Mitchell (PG-13)
Fandom:: DUE SOUTH
Pairing: None
Author on LJ:
Author Website: Melanie's Due South Fan Fiction Page
Why this must be read:
This story features a young Harding Welsh. It's become one of my favorites in this fandom. He struggles with his morals and how they can fit into the ideals of the police department as well as his father's beliefs. It's an incredibly well-written story that is very powerful. Melanie manages to get us inside of Welsh's head and see the terror that is unfolding around him. It's not a long read at all, but it is a terrific story.
As three days of exhaustion and stress crystallized into a moment of frightening clarity, Harding realized with absolute certainty what should have been done. His voice faltered for a moment, but then the words began to flow faster. "The sun goes down, and we move in with tear gas and mace and nightsticks. Why? We gotta get the protesters outta the park. Tell me something." He watched the captain's face for any sign of comprehension, but Harrison stared back at him blankly, his fingertips steepled in front of his face.
"Tell me something," he repeated. "Where are ten thousand protesters supposed to go? Did we think they would just disappear? No, they're going to head out into the streets around the park. Ten thousand kids! They block traffic, they make noise, they're a nuisance! Only now they're a now they're a disorganized, resentful, spread-out nuisance milling around in the residential side streets of Old Town. And we're right behind them. Gotta get them to shut up, gotta get them off the streets, gotta get them gone. Cops are wandering through the neighborhood streets, looking for enemies. They're clubbing anybody who's not wearing a uniform!"
Lt. Molloy interrupted. "Hardy, you know as well as anybody that the protesters brought this on themselves."
Harding winced at the lieutenant's use of his childhood nickname, but didn't let it faze him. "You know something? It's hard to distinguish between a protester and an ordinary citizen who just happened to be walking home. Never mind that it's impossible to distinguish between the protesters who were throwing bricks and the ones who were peaceful!"
Molloy exploded. "Don't give me that 'peaceful protesters' bullshit. You don't think they wanted this? They came here with detailed plans, with every intention of provoking violence, so they could play up to the press."
"And that makes it okay? It's okay to go around bashing demonstrators, because their leaders planned it to happen that way? We're playing right into their hands!" Welsh couldn't believe that the lieutenant could be so blind. "We look like the goddamn Soviets invading Prague, and they come across like Martin Luther King!"
Harrison cleared his throat. Harding broke off and looked warily at the captain, who had leaned back in the lieutenant's chair and placed his spit-shined-black size twelve shoes on the center of the desk. Observant by nature and by training, Harding noted with detachment that the captain's shoes were quite new, the leather soles barely scuffed. At the same time, Harrison was coolly observing the earnest Harding Welsh, who had suddenly lost all his eloquence and momentum.
Chicago, 1968
Pairing: None
Author on LJ:
Author Website: Melanie's Due South Fan Fiction Page
Why this must be read:
This story features a young Harding Welsh. It's become one of my favorites in this fandom. He struggles with his morals and how they can fit into the ideals of the police department as well as his father's beliefs. It's an incredibly well-written story that is very powerful. Melanie manages to get us inside of Welsh's head and see the terror that is unfolding around him. It's not a long read at all, but it is a terrific story.
As three days of exhaustion and stress crystallized into a moment of frightening clarity, Harding realized with absolute certainty what should have been done. His voice faltered for a moment, but then the words began to flow faster. "The sun goes down, and we move in with tear gas and mace and nightsticks. Why? We gotta get the protesters outta the park. Tell me something." He watched the captain's face for any sign of comprehension, but Harrison stared back at him blankly, his fingertips steepled in front of his face.
"Tell me something," he repeated. "Where are ten thousand protesters supposed to go? Did we think they would just disappear? No, they're going to head out into the streets around the park. Ten thousand kids! They block traffic, they make noise, they're a nuisance! Only now they're a now they're a disorganized, resentful, spread-out nuisance milling around in the residential side streets of Old Town. And we're right behind them. Gotta get them to shut up, gotta get them off the streets, gotta get them gone. Cops are wandering through the neighborhood streets, looking for enemies. They're clubbing anybody who's not wearing a uniform!"
Lt. Molloy interrupted. "Hardy, you know as well as anybody that the protesters brought this on themselves."
Harding winced at the lieutenant's use of his childhood nickname, but didn't let it faze him. "You know something? It's hard to distinguish between a protester and an ordinary citizen who just happened to be walking home. Never mind that it's impossible to distinguish between the protesters who were throwing bricks and the ones who were peaceful!"
Molloy exploded. "Don't give me that 'peaceful protesters' bullshit. You don't think they wanted this? They came here with detailed plans, with every intention of provoking violence, so they could play up to the press."
"And that makes it okay? It's okay to go around bashing demonstrators, because their leaders planned it to happen that way? We're playing right into their hands!" Welsh couldn't believe that the lieutenant could be so blind. "We look like the goddamn Soviets invading Prague, and they come across like Martin Luther King!"
Harrison cleared his throat. Harding broke off and looked warily at the captain, who had leaned back in the lieutenant's chair and placed his spit-shined-black size twelve shoes on the center of the desk. Observant by nature and by training, Harding noted with detachment that the captain's shoes were quite new, the leather soles barely scuffed. At the same time, Harrison was coolly observing the earnest Harding Welsh, who had suddenly lost all his eloquence and momentum.
Chicago, 1968