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.
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 despite his wounds This kind of treatment of suspects is just disgusting.
"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.
@Prince of Seraphs If you stay up a bit longer (Or eat breakfast next to your computer? Idk your timezone) I can present the next version. Also I do not find you tactless in the least, and I'd rather be told "This is what's wrong" then my SO's "Your so good at writing!" I appreciate compliments but they don't help me improve as much as criticism, and don't worry I will work on the character.
@Prince of Seraphs Every time I read your critiques, I try to justify the things I'm doing in my head. Fortunately, you don't just point out the flaws, you say why the way they would be flaws, and I end up agreeing with you cause you're right.
•You're definitely right about "occurrences" as right now they are completely insignificant, and not only that, the way I was trying to introduce them just made my writing clunkier and clunkier.
•Heh. Sam is totally an exposition dump on two legs. His character is bland, for the reasons you stated: I didn't consider fleshing out his character since I really wanted to explore the world. I'll do better.
•Pyrokinetics was a bit too heavy handed, your right. Even if the word is Pyrokinesis, that was indeed a very poorly thought out sentence. People get the gist, no need to dump the exposition too heavily.
•I'll fix his notes
Thank I really can't thank you enough for the feedback. The fact that you took the time out to help me so directly is very altruistic, and I appreciate it so much. I just need a mini version of you that can improve my writing 24/7.
Sorry if this is a bit less refined, the grammar and spelling are probably a bit more flawed than the last one. I tried to keep the focus more on Sam, as well as more directly introducing Braden
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. 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 bodies, 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 psychiatrist had called it "pyrokinetics" or something reminiscent of that phrase. 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.
"A call went up around an 13:30 reporting a burning building. An older lady who lived across the street from the building. 13:45 - a young boy was found in the wreckage of a burning building. The first to arrive on the scene observed him keeping the heat away from himself using some sort of supernatural ability. Firefighters carefully moved the boy, letting paramedics on scene treat him as best they could. Unfortunately an order from the FBI prevented them from bringing anyone with supposed supernatural powers from being treated at a normal hospital. 14:00 - Soon after being treated the FBI showed up and began questioning the boy. Though nothing has been disclosed officially by the FBI (and probably won't be) a firefighter heard them discussing the burned down building. Not ground breaking in the least. 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 in a armored vehicle. Despite his wounds. This kind of treatment of suspects is very inhumane, and calls for a review of how these people are being treated."
"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. His facial expressions were always soft, and it was rare when he didn't smile. "The kid. His parents are- ahem were. Were both doctors, he does well in school and then this shit happens. He said he just got it, no occurrence, then his house gets burned down."
Sam nodded slowly, his frown lingering. "So the kid is a liar, on at least one count. Everyone gets 'occurrences' or 'visions' when they get their powers, whatever they really are. We know this pretty well from multiple sources, not least of which the Doc. He isn't an exception; he is probably fibbing as much as he can, as if it will save him. Every police station we know of got the same briefing. Occurrences seem to be tied with how people get their powers. Strange visions, that other people with powers can see if they're nearby." 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. 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. Sam shrugged off Braden's wandering eyes and slowly made his way after the boy. Normally people like him would be held in a more secure environment, but the FBI had filled their containment cells already. 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, but Sam ignored them 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. "Are you thirsty?" Common decency had to be expected All the boy offered was a nod of confirmation, nothing more. Sam stood up and 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. The boy was probably in shock, and he just wanted to go home. Unfortunately that wasn't currently an option, as even Sam didn't have the authority to bring him home.
The boy lifted his eyes to meet the detective's, and left them there; They were an intense, piercing, blue and 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.
Thank you @TheWindel for your feedback! You make some good points, you're right about how I introduce Braden's name, and I'll take that into consideration while also making sure it's clear the story is supposed to be from Sam's perspective. I'm starting the edits right now, and I'll post that as soon as it's at a readable standard.
@Prince of Seraphs I really appreciate the feedback, especially coming from you. You're completely right about the focus of the story, I didn't even notice it before but it does jump all over the place, and I should really avoid that. The bank robber isn't relevant, and he doesn't even offer a bit of exposition, which brings me to what I was trying to avoid. I didn't want to give an exposition dump, and I'm trying to integrate details as best I can. The bank robber was a way to show Sam's helplessness in these situations, but it adds nothing.
Also sorry if moving the focus to the cop (Braden I'm assuming?) as the focal point was a bit jarring, but I couldn't think of another conceivable way to get Sam into the room at the time, and the idea of Sam
Also I may be a bit too optimistic when I'm appreciating that "promising premise" comment a lot.
I was hoping to explain a lot of the questions you held about the universe (and arrest) for the next chapter, though if you think that is not a good idea I'd love to hear your reasoning behind immediately answering these (or alternative ways to present the things that aren't explained) along with any other concerns or comments.
Final note: I was never a fan of power negations via a deus ex machina machine, and am very interested in the alternative of These people can use their powers at almost anytime, and unless someone has a power that uses the deus ex machina superpower of negation then we are saved etc. etc. Sorry if that last paragraph was a bit of a rant or didn't make a lot of sense.
Hey; for those who have the time to read it, I'd really appreciate feedback on some of my writing; Hopefully deeper then my comma usage. Read before reading C refers to chapter, V to current version. IE C1V3 = Chapter 1 Version 3 Read the highest V for the most recent version. I'm keeping all versions to show how I've improved.
Chapter 1
The detainee walked slowly, his armed escorts matching the pace beside him. A balding man in SWAT body armor stood a bit further back, his hand on his holster. 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 bodies, and his inconsistent gait conveyed his pain well.
Sam couldn't help but feel sad about the boy's situation. He couldn't be more than seventeen, yet he had been cursed with the ability to control fire without being fireproof in the least. The psychiatrist had called it "pyrokinetics" or something reminiscent of that phrase.
The boy and his entourage went around the corner and left Sam's line of sight with hard footsteps. The dark haired detective turned to the cork board behind him. A photo was stuck to the center, showing a bearded man centered and looking at the camera with contempt. The angle was from a slightly elevated height, looking down on the man.
His name was Joseph and he had inspired many a sleepless night, torturing Sam's subconscious. He was in his mid-thirties or so, and looked it. Male, red hair, and large stature. Bank robbery after bank robbery kept occurring and they still didn't have a clue what he could do. The bank would open in the morning, and a large amount of the money stored on site would be missing. No fingerprints, no hair, only this photo, taken by a security camera on one of the sites. Not a single other camera had captured him, though not for lack of trying.
A state-wide BOLO had been issued, demanding his arrest, and even the FBI were interested; if only because they were recruiting. Not hide nor hair, and only three false tips. It was becoming less and less hard to believe; the man might as well be a ghost.
"Is this is what we pay you for Sam?"
A gruff voice interrupted the narrative in Sam's head that was going back over the evidence. A frown creeped across 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 jump 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. "I saw you watch the boy. Damn shame. Good kid, parents are both doctors, he does well in school and then this shit happens. He said he just got it, no occurrence. Then his house gets burnt down? Mighty fine coincidence. This shit always lines up in odd ways, or doesn't at all, regardless of what the Doc says."
Sam nodded slowly, his frown lingering. "So the kid is a liar, on at least one count. Everyone gets 'occurrences' or 'visions' when they get their powers, whatever they really are. We know this pretty well from multiple sources, not least of which the Doc. He isn't an exception; he is probably fibbing as much as he can, as if it will save him." 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 let Doc' do it?"
"Why don't you give it a shot?" Braden asked, looking curious as to how this would play out. Sam however was not curious, because he had expected this.
"Of course, Major." He replied, pulling his clothes tighter around him. 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. Sam shrugged off Braden's wandering eyes and slowly made his way after the boy. Normally people like him would be held in a more secure environment, but the FBI had filled their containment cells already. The hall light flickered above him as he put his hand on the door to the room where they had placed the boy.
Reality reformed around him (only metaphorically) as he noticed the armed agents on either side of the door, but ignored them 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, and it wasn't hard to tell. His eyes were glued to Sam as he took his seat. Sam could easily tell how his arrest turned out. Being pulled out of the burning building by a concerned firefighter, tears streaming down his cheek. Having his injuries treated for a bit before the FBI arrived, the soldiers coming with them. Martial law allowed the immediate arrest, and the boy could only be terrified and mumble about it not being his fault. He might've even tried to run, but no one took any chances with these frea. . .
"Are you thirsty?" Sam wasn't even trying to play good cop. Common decency was to be expected regardless of how terrifying the boy could be. All the boy offered was a nod of confirmation, nothing more. Sam stood up and walked to the door, and opened it. Peeking out, he quickly requested the water before sitting down again.
The door shut via its own weight, the sound echoing in the small room. "It was an accident, wasn't it?" Sam asked quietly, trying to be respectful. The boy was probably in shock, and he just wanted to be kind.
The boy lifted his eyes to meet the detective's, and left them there; They were an intense piercing, blue and 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.
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. 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 bodies, 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 psychiatrist had called it "pyrokinetics" or something reminiscent of that phrase. 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.
"A call went up around an 13:30 reporting a burning building. An older lady who lived across the street from the building. 13:45 - a young boy was found in the wreckage of a burning building. The first to arrive on the scene observed him keeping the heat away from himself using some sort of supernatural ability. Firefighters carefully moved the boy, letting paramedics on scene treat him as best they could. Unfortunately an order from the FBI prevented them from bringing anyone with supposed supernatural powers from being treated at a normal hospital. 14:00 - Soon after being treated the FBI showed up and began questioning the boy. Though nothing has been disclosed officially by the FBI (and probably won't be) a firefighter heard them discussing the burned down building. Not ground breaking in the least. 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 in a armored vehicle. Despite his wounds. This kind of treatment of suspects is very inhumane, and calls for a review of how these people are being treated."
"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. His facial expressions were always soft, and it was rare when he didn't smile. "The kid. His parents are- ahem were. Were both doctors, he does well in school and then this shit happens. He said he just got it, no occurrence, then his house gets burned down."
Sam nodded slowly, his frown lingering. "So the kid is a liar, on at least one count. Everyone gets 'occurrences' or 'visions' when they get their powers, whatever they really are. We know this pretty well from multiple sources, not least of which the Doc. He isn't an exception; he is probably fibbing as much as he can, as if it will save him. Every police station we know of got the same briefing. Occurrences seem to be tied with how people get their powers. Strange visions, that other people with powers can see if they're nearby." 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. 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. Sam shrugged off Braden's wandering eyes and slowly made his way after the boy. Normally people like him would be held in a more secure environment, but the FBI had filled their containment cells already. 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, but Sam ignored them 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. "Are you thirsty?" Common decency had to be expected All the boy offered was a nod of confirmation, nothing more. Sam stood up and 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. The boy was probably in shock, and he just wanted to go home. Unfortunately that wasn't currently an option, as even Sam didn't have the authority to bring him home.
The boy lifted his eyes to meet the detective's, and left them there; They were an intense, piercing, blue and 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.
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.
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 despite his wounds This kind of treatment of suspects is just disgusting.
"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.
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 watched this happen through a grainy CCTV monitor, looking over the operators' shoulders. A good thirty monitors covered the wall, and the desk had built in radios. All of this was recently built, and was admittedly very impressive. The call about this boy being picked up had gone out a while ago, and Sam had been waiting for the boy to arrive since, listening to the chatter as he waited. Normal protocol had gone out the window as soon as the boy was escorted here instead of a hospital. He glanced down at the notes, which he had scribbled earlier. They were sparse on the details, as the FBI kept their mouths shut too often to let Sam do his job.
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 despite his wounds This kind of treatment of suspects is just disgusting.
"You busy Sam?"
A gruff voice interrupted the narrative in Sam's head.
"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 don't like the shit show the FBI has been orchestrating, not to mention the national guard undoing everything we've worked hard for with the community projects."
A deep breath escaped Sam's lips, his eyes following the older detective carefully. His name was Braden, and he was going on fifty, while Sam was at the earlier half of his thirties. Braden's facial expressions were always soft, and it was rare to chance upon him without a smile. He was without a smile 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. I doubt a lot of us know what he is going through. 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?"
"I see what you mean. After all this he just needs some sympathy, I'm sure. Guilty or not. 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, but you owe me a drink," He replied, sharing a smile at the proposition. Sam pulled 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 brown hair, and silently appreciated the fact that it wasn't graying yet. Sam noticed Braden acting slightly impatient and slowly made his way in the direction of the boy's interrogation room, feeling uncomfortable under his superior's gaze. Holding cell after holding cell was full and Sam eyed each one carefully as he walked past, not used to this many parahumans being held in the facility at once. At the end of the line of containment cells were interrogation rooms. Two were empty, and one occupied.
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 pointed 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. He glanced at the camera in the corner of the room quickly, then at the oneway glass.
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 short pause followed, and Sam waited patiently before speaking again, "Do you need anything? Maybe an ice cold water?" The boy nodded quickly, seeming slightly happier at the prospect.Sam walked to the door, satisfied that he had at least gotten that out of him. The kid would crack in no time, and they could find out what had actually happened. As Sam pushed opened the door he heard loud, crisp foot steps echoing down the hall, and he saw the guards flinch very slightly with each footfall. Sam closed the door and walked the rest of the way out into the middle of the hallway.
An older man in his later forties was walking down the hall wearing a well fitted dark suit, contrasting his blonde hair strongly. An ID card provided by the PD's reception informed all who viewed it that he was a member of the FBI. It was a generic tag, preprinted and laminated as was demanded with their involvement being so complete. The man's square face drew Sam's eye, as it was the most prominent feature. The way his jaw protuded was odd, and made Sam instantly dislike the man for this very superficial reason. The man's words didn't help his case when it came to appealing to Sam.
"What the fuck are you doing with my witness Greenie?" He asked angrily, clearly speaking at Sam, as opposed to to him. It was quite the odd insult considering Sam's expierence in the force, though he wasn't used to being treated well by people like Square Jaw. After all their nose's were so far up their boss's asses that they couldn't be expected to show respect.
Sam thought for a second, considering his words. Greenie could also be a reference to his expierence with working alongside the FBI (though saying they worked alongside assumed there was mutual respect). Either way it wasn't really true, though he was angered nonetheless. If he didn't want to get in trouble he should refrain from saying an action movie one liner like "I'm just doing my job asshole." He seethed inwardly, but remained composed nonetheless and answered, "Sorry for the intrusion, sir. Me and my superiors thought we should lighten the work load on your department a bit, and try to interrogate the suspect." It was, at the very least, a half truth, and hid his anger well.
Square-Jaw's mouth formed into a hard scowl, his eyes narrowing. "Just stay away from the witness, Greenie," He said before walking past Sam, and into the interrogation room.
Sam was still bristling as the door closed under its own weight behind him, and stalked towards the viewing room. He threw the door open, and glanced around quickly to make sure he was alone. He sat down in the wooden chair provided, which faced away from the glass. A deep breath escaped his lips as he stared at the wall intently.
He let his anger fade, taking deep breaths as he studied the, oh so interesting, wall in front of him. After thirty seconds or so he was back to normal. After forty he noticed that the VCR in the corner which recorded the CCTV camera in the interrogation room wasn't recording. He pushed the VCR the rest of the way into its slot and pressed the record button. As he did so, he glanced over at the room, watching the Square-Jaw attempting to interrogate Zach.
The man sat across from Zach, his mouth forming words that Sam couldn't quite follow, and the glass wasn't thin enough to let sound through. He turned around and turned up the volume on the TV connected to the VCR to a reasonably quiet level before turning back to watch the scene unfold.
"-about the fire. Isn't it more then a bit coincidental?"
Zach's response was inaudible.
"A murderer like you doesn't even deserve a trial, much less water. We could have you shot right now, no one would bat an eye."
"I don't know if you could."
A scoff escaped the Square-Jaw's man's mouth, as he glanced at the door.
"I don't buy bullshit, boy. The officers on site gave me their reports, and there is no fucking way. You'd be one in a million, and your luck died with your family. You're no superman."
