LOG: Saturday Night, New York City - The Lower East Side

[xp-rockme.livejournal.com]

New York's finest have picked up a runaway shoplifter, and it's a pretty routine night. But the boy is more than he seems, and things are about to get a little ...out of hand.



The room was tiny, and it barely fit the two officers and the subject at hand. The boy sitting across from them was dirty, disheveled and a bit too skinny. Obviously a runaway, especially after being picked up for trying to shoplift a laptop from an electronics bodega.

Not that those laptops weren't probably stolen to begin with, after all it was the lower east side, but that was neither here nor there.

However, the real interesting thing was that the boy had given them the name Phar Kew, and a social security number that belonged to a dead Norwegian man from Winnetonka.

That, and, for someone in as much trouble as he was, he was entirely unperturbed.

The two officers sitting across from him, however, were beginning to show their annoyance.

The dark haired Latino officer on the left sighed dramatically and placed a hand on the table. "Listen, chief. We don't have time for these games. You've in a boatload of trouble already and this can all be resolved if you just tell who your parents are. Easy peasy."

They had been at this for a while now, and the boy was showing no signs of cracking. It was more than a little frustrating. "You can tell us or you can spend the night in lock up," his partner, a fair-skinned man, added gruffly. Playing nice with the kid obviously wasn't working. Maybe the threat of jail would get him talking.

The boy rocked back in his chair, the plastic seat making an annoying squeak. "I've given you the info man, I don't know what else you need. I'm O positive, Aquarius, and a gentle and sensitive lover."

The fair-skinned officer sighed heavily. "Look, kid." The note of impatience was clear. "We've tried to be nice. We just want to help you. What's so hard about telling us what we want to know?"

The other officer used this opportunity to balance his partner's impatience with a caring smile. The kind you gave misbehaving puppies. "My buddy makes an excellent point. We don't want to see a sweet kid like you go to court -- "

This was interrupted by a knock on the interrogation room door. The two officers exchanged a glance, and the one who had just been talking left to deal with the interruption.

The boy still gave no sign of anything other than bemusement, but his fidgeting increased, the chair squeaking under his weight. The noises were getting louder and higher pitched.

"Knock it off," the officer who had stayed behind snapped, losing his patience a bit. The sound was grating on his nerves.

The boy rocked back, the chair squeaking shrilly, enough to make the officer's head throb, but he ceased his fidgeting. He leaned forward and stared at the officer, his dark, almond-shaped eyes showing a fierce intelligence that belied his manner and age. It caused the other man to sweat.

The stalemate broke with the opening of the door.

The returning officer was a little red in the face, as if he has been yelling, when he walked back. He stopped halfway in the entry, leaving the door prompted only a crack with one foot. His eyes immediately met his partner's, and this was followed by a slight nod over his shoulder toward who they all could see was in the hall: a black-suited man with black sunglasses and a black tie looking very stereotypical in his fedness.

"Kid, looks like you pissed off people outside our pay-grade."

For a split second, it seemed like a flash of fear crossed the boy's face. Surprise definitely. But then he smiled broadly.

"Lemme, guess, you've found my ride. Excellent, well, it's been a pleasure gentlemen," he turned to the officers. Then he stuck his fingers in his ears and rocked back on his chair, causing the metal and plastic to rub together in such a way that the sound produced was at the exact frequency that would cause unconsciousness to the person who heard it.

Which is exactly what happened to good cop, bad cop, and secret agent man.

Whistling with his tongue between his teeth, the boy stood and began to relieve the officers of their handguns and flashlights, and then expertly cuffed the three men together. He pulled a gun from the agent, made a face at it, and dismantled it within the blink of an eye.

"Sorry guys, it's been fun, try and be a little less cliche next time though," he patted Bad Cop's cheek and slipped out.

"Look, you can't come in and just claim jurisdiction." The din of the precinct covered up the argument another cop was having with the unconscious agent's partner, but the facial expressions made it obvious that neither person was happy. "We can't just hand a kid over to someone off the street, you need paperwork."

"I don't have time to mess around with-"

But the cop was distracted from the argument by the sight of the boy in question, creeping into the precinct. "Hey!" He called. "Somebody grab him!"

The boy's eyes widened, he was frozen in the middle of an exaggerated "sneak" stance. "Oh, fu--"

What followed was bedlam. Every time someone would made a grab for him, he would duck, or slither out of their grasp, in one instance he licked an officer's ear. People were shouting, screaming, shoving, each movement, flung piece of paper of tipped chair seemed to only create more chaos. He knocked over a chair, tripping the officer behind him, while throwing and bouncing a stapler off the forehead of another.

This ended with Special Agent Henderson firing his gun in the air. Everyone froze, weapons were drawn. The boy stood meekly, having regained possession of his backpack, in the process of shoving earplugs in his ear.

"Everybody shut up!" The man hollered into the silence. "Now, as I was saying, I don't have time to mess around with you people. This boy is a dangerous mutant and he'll be coming with me."

Nobody argued this time.

The dangerous mutant blinked, and tilted his head in a conciliatory way.

"Yep, you got me, I am clearly the most dangerous mutant on the planet," he rolled his eyes. "Come on, I can't legally vote, barely have a learner's permit, and the only time I crested a buck thirty is the time I ate 200 chicken nuggets on a dare. Really? Really?" as he talked he rubbed his ear against his shoulder, inserting the other plug.

Some of the officers looked askance at one another, the boy hadn't done anything harmful, and he looked entirely normal. if filthy. But the Agent stood firm.

The boy blinked, laughed, and shrugged. "Yeah really," he grinned, and before anyone could react he blew the whistle in his cupped palm. A dog whistle that had been dented at a precise angle, producing a sound that had only been theorized in stoned scientific circles.

The legendary Brown Note.

And as the entire precinct of New York's Number 7th shit themselves, the boy made good his escape.