This one is pretty good [sub][sub][sub]I hope[/sub][/sub][/sub]
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The detainee walked slowly, his armed escorts matching the pace beside him. An older man with a set of standard Kevlar body armor stood a bit further back, his hand on his holster. He was the only one not outfitted in fireproof gear. The others wore Kevlar body armor that was normally worn when defusing bombs, making them blast resistant as an added benefit. The center of the entourage had handcuffs that were too tight and hair that was too short. It was a chestnut brown except where it had been burned. His clothes were close to tatters, and not decent in the least. Wretched burns of almost every degree covered his body, and his inconsistent gait conveyed his pain well.

Sam observed all this from his desk, and had to feel bad for the boy. He couldn't have been more than seventeen, yet he had been cursed with the ability to control fire without being fireproof in the least. The boy and his entourage went around the corner and left Sam's line of sight with hard footsteps. The dark haired detective took out his notepad from his top left desk drawer and wrote quickly, mumbling to himself all the while.

[i]13:30 - Call by an older lady; reported burning building.
13:45 - First responders observed a boy keeping the heat away from himself using some sort of supernatural ability. Boy removed by firefighters.
14:00 - Soon after being treated the FBI showed up and began questioning the boy, as well as the first responders.
14:20 - The FBI radioed for and received backup as well as transport for the boy. Armed soldiers showed up and escorted the boy to the police station [b]despite his wounds[/b] This kind of treatment of suspects is just disgusting.[/i]

"You busy Sam?"

A gruff voice interrupted Sam's quick writing. A frown formed on his face as he turned around.

"Am I allowed to once again lament how much easier this work used to be?" Sam asked, through almost closed teeth. His voice was higher pitched then most men, and a majority didn't let him forget it. "I liked my job much more when people couldn't leap buildings in a single bound. When we didn't have to account for the paranormal, and arson cases didn't involve finding out if any of the pyromaniacs had broken their parole. Do you remember when a perfect bank robbery was impossible?"

A deep breath escaped Sam's lips, watching the older detective smile at the question. His name was Braden, and he was going on fifty, while Sam was at the later half of his thirties. Braden's facial expressions were always soft, and it was rare to chance upon him without a smile. His smile faded as he began speaking. "Zach, the kid, His parents are- ahem were. Were both doctors, he does well in school and then this shit happens. He said he got his powers in the midst of the fire."

Sam nodded slowly, his frown lingering. "Mighty fine coincidence, huh? Right now though, lets be honest, he's probably just lonely, ya know? This kinda shit happening to a kid is. . . Just not right." A long sigh left Sam's lips, as he glanced in the direction the boy had disappeared to. "You gonna talk to him? Or are you gonna make me do it?"

"Why don't you give it a shot?" Braden asked, making it out to be an opportunity as opposed to a chore. Sam didn't see it that way.

"Of course, Major." He replied, pulling his clothes tighter around him as he stood. His brown trenchcoat was as dull as the suit he wore underneath, the black tie contrasting the white shirt only barely. They were both grungy as hell. When standing straight Sam was a decent bit shorter then the Major who was about average height. He reached up and ran his hands through his hair, and silently appreciated the fact that it wasn't graying yet. Sam noticed Braden's wandering eyes and slowly made his way in the direction the boy had headed, feeling uncomfortable under his superior's gaze. Normally people like Zach would be held in a more secure environment, but the FBI's local office's limited cells led to people like Zach being stored in local police stations like this. 

The hall light flickered above him as he put his hand on the door to the room where they had placed the boy. Armed agents stood on either side of the door, watching him carefully. They were pretty clear indicators of where 'special' individuals were being held. Sam ignored their prodding gazes as he entered. It was a smaller room, the table in the middle half occupied and occupying; the first was being done by the young boy and the second by the table to the room.

The boy looked tired, but his eyes warily observed Sam as he took his seat. "Hello Zach, I'm inspector Myers, and I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable." A long pause followed that Zach didn't bother filling, which made the attenuated detective a bit flustered. "I apologize for the treatment, but that was completely out of my control. Are you alright? Need anything to drink?" Common decency had to be expected  All the boy offered was a nod of confirmation, nothing more. He was being very cold, and it was kinda unnerving; Sam stood up, walked to the door, and opened it. Peeking out, he quickly requested the water from one of the agents and was sat down again before they could respond.

The door shut via its own weight, the sound echoing in the small room. One-way glass was behind Sam, and a trashcan sat in the corner. "It was an accident, wasn't it?" Sam asked quietly, trying to be respectful. Zach seemed to be in shock, and Sam just wanted to the truth. That and he knew the boy was dying to talk. All suspects and witnesses had one thing in common: The want to talk, to explain, to justify, and to help.

The boy lifted his eyes to meet the detective's and left them there. They were an intense, piercing blue, and they seemed to be locked on Sam's dull green eyes. Sam felt something change. It was as if he had stood up too fast after sitting for too long and his gaze appeared to be through a long dark tunnel, which was growing longer every second. Darkness overtook him but not peacefully like falling asleep. Forcefully, like a car crash.
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