(Continued from Spring is in the Air.)

Sebastian woke flat on his back on a hard surface. The ceiling was bare concrete, the walls of the room where bars. The back of his head throbbed, his palms burned, and his face just plain old hurt. He lifted his hand to touch it and his fingers came away red. Underneath the red, his skin was far pinker than normal.

“Nice face, freak,” his cell mate sneered, “but don't worry, I'm sure the coppers with be sending a medic down to patch you up right away. I know how friendly this town's police forces are towards mutie criminals.”

Sebastian turned his head to face the scowling teen that sat on a bench just six feet away. It was the boy who had broken into the house. The unicorn man blinked at him, unable to form very coherent thoughts, let alone a sensible response.

“I'm still bleeding,” he informed the younger man. This fact was important, for some reason, he just didn't remember why at the moment.

“Any idea what their mutations actually are?” Jocelyn frowned into the air over her desk. Honestly, these days when there was the slightest whiff of a mutant everyone cried for MRC. She could barely even get all her paperwork done with all the cases she was handling these days. The detective sighed and responded again, “Alright, I'll be right down.”

Fifteen minutes later she had shrugged back on all the gear she had shed for what she thought was going to be a quiet couple of hours in the office and stood outside the two cells that held the four suspects. As a group they were a potpourri of different scents: nervousness and anger, sweat and blood, mutant and human. She'd have to see them separately in order to separate whose scent was whose.

“Has anyone called a medic for this man?” Jocelyn tapped her foot impatiently while the young officer Perham stumbled through an excuse. She continued to wait with raised eyebrow until he had scuttled to call one. He'd learn.

“I'll question them one at a time. Elias, if they get chatty make sure you are listening to what they say. That said,” the detective pointed at each prisoner in turn, “1, 2, 3, 4. I'll see them in that order.” Number one was the brown haired teen who had supposedly attempted to assault someone with a table lamp. Jocelyn led the way to the plain interrogation room. Deputy Perham nervously unlocked the cell and escorted the handcuffed teen after her. Each took their places; Perham waited by the door, Jocelyn sat on one side of the table with a pen and clipboard ready, the boy... it was highly suggested that he sit down in the offered chair.

Jocelyn smiled at him as pleasantly and professionally as possible. In her experience most people spoke more freely and honestly when they felt comfortable. “I am Detective Banks. I'm going to ask you a series of questions about today's events. Please be as honest as possible.”

“First, what is your name?”

He was in the clank! The slammer! Behind bars! It was quite traumatizing, especially because he was thrown in with the thief that he was originally trying to stop from doing something bad. Kai glared daggers at him whenever possible, but said nothing. He was taking his Miranda rights seriously. All the same, he had done nothing wrong and hoped that he would quickly be proven innocent. At least he was doing better than his fellow heroes- one was unconscious and Sebastian was covered in his own blood.

A woman officer came to the cell and looked them over, selecting Kai as the first person to interrogate. He followed, trying his hardest not to be nervous.

The door slammed ominously behind him and Kai took the seat across the table from the officer. He’d seen enough movies to know his role here. At least there was no bare light bulb hanging above them or slow drip of water from the ceiling. This really wasn’t as intimidating and creepy as most interrogation scenes concocted by Hollywood.

>>“First, what is your name?” Detective Banks began.

Kai took a big breath and exhaled, “Kai Johnson. Don’t I get a lawyer here?”

Jocelyn inhaled, letting the pattern of his scent build a picture of who he was in her mind. Mutant, elemental of some kind. Earthy, like he spent more time surrounded by nature than wandering around in city filth. Nervous, lots of adrenaline pumping right now, but that was pretty normal for an interrogation even if someone was innocent. Fairly clean, though he had been fairly active since his last shower. Cereal for breakfast, multi-grain cheerios with milk.

In short, he smelled like a simple farm boy who didn't really belong in the big city.

“Kai,” she nodded a greeting. He'd seen a Hollywood movie or two, from the sounds of it. “You do have a right to have a lawyer present if you like, however, the process will move along more quickly if we can simply get your statement now. Your cooperation will help us get you out of here sooner if you are indeed innocent.”

“Would you please explain from your point of view the events of this morning?”

Oh. So maybe he wasn’t under arrest, after all, he was just a witness. That sounded a lot better. He slid into this new role with ease and confidence since he had the truth on his side.

“I was exploring the mansion grounds, considering moving in, ya know. Then I heard this crash like something breaking. It sounded like glass and like it was across the street, so I went to investigate and I saw the house with the window broken in the front. Sebastian was walking by- the pale dude, and he went around back to head off the robber. Then I went in to try to scare him so that we could capture him or something, but he got around me and then you guys showed up.” He spoke in a giant rush, not even bothering to breathe in again until he was finished.

“So… that’s what happened,” he finished, lamely.

He hoped that he had remembered everything right. He chose specifically to edit Andrea out of his story, even if they weren’t in real trouble, it seemed like a bad idea to rat out a new friend and have the police hunt her down. Maybe they already had enough witnesses with him and the other two guys. Kai slouched a little in his chair, exhausted by the mental and physical activities of the day.

It smelled and sounded truthful, his statements simply lacked a lot of details. Jocelyn nodded, jotted down two or three quick notes, then took her own breath to ask for a bit of clarification.

“Perhaps you could add some details for me. How did you enter the house and who and what did you see inside?”

She tapped the paper, her face carefully contemplative. Actually entering the house didn't look good, but the fact that he admitted it so easily meant he probably didn't realize what he had done wrong.

Oops. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that he entered the house. But then how would he have explained the lamp? Or the fact that he’d climbed out of the window right as they got there? Stick with the truth, man, the truth will set you free. Hopefully literally.

“Ah, I climbed in through the broken window, over the bleeding hearts. They were looking a little trampled and there was a lamp hanging out of the window. As I got there, the shade fell off and landed on them, squishing some of the little blossoms. I went around them so as not to squish them further, because they weren’t planted flush against the building. Then I climbed through the window, using my arms, ‘cause with the plant there, there wasn’t a lot of great footing.

“When I got inside it was dark but I could hear noises. I grabbed the fallen lamp, mostly to keep it from falling onto the bleeding hearts. The towards the back of the house I saw a shadowy figure. Um, I think that was in the kitchen.”

Kai squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember all the details. He hoped that he was being specific enough.

Jocelyn blinked. Bleeding hearts? Like a whole pile of... oh, the plants. Got it. He was being very detailed now. Perhaps overly so, but that was an improvement over lack of details. Sometimes the smallest things could make the biggest differences.

“You have a good memory,” she encouraged him. This one seemed to be a natural talker, and his words floated by easily;m he didn't have to put a lot of effort into inventing these details, whether they were the truth or a lie. Most likely the truth, considering how trivial some of them were. The distance of the bushes from the house, really?

“Alright, so you entered and there was already someone inside. Can you describe them?” So far he had only accounted for two out of the four people they had picked up. How did the other two fit in?

“The guy- he was a guy, well, I mean you picked him up at the scene, so you should know…” but that wasn’t what she wanted, so he continued, “He’s a little taller than me. Seventeen or eighteen or so. Dark hair, kinda messy like he hadn’t showered in a while. Or that weird thing some guys do to try to look cool. Where they pretend that they don’t care how their hair falls. I think he had dark colored eyes, but I didn’t really get a good look at him that close.”

He considered for a moment, trying to find his place in the story. “So I met him in the kitchen, and… uh… He had a bat. Then things got all funny, like he was making things happen and I got distracted and he got by me. I thought I’d set a trap for him out the window, but apparently it got Sebastian. Anyway, I followed him and I saw him start punching people. The other guy from the mansion who crossed the street with us……” Did he ever say his name? Hmm, I can’t recall.

“I don’t think we were really formally introduced, but he had some bug spray or something, so I think he worked at the mansion. Then the cops- I mean, all you police officers came- Wait a minute, how’d you hear about the robbery anyway? We completely spaced calling the cops!” Which, looking back, would have been a good idea. Oh well, nothing ventured nothing gained.

Farm-boy's description fit pretty well with suspect number four. His 'all funny' made it sound like the other suspect was an unidentified mutant of some kind. Please God, not a reality manipulator, Jocelyn secretly prayed. Probably he wouldn't be, those things were almost as rare as they were deadly, thankfully.

Unaccounted for number two was apparently some kind of worker at the school across the street, just another nosey do-gooder civilian.

Jocelyn stood up, “That's all the questions for now. We'll have to keep you here for a little longer I'm afraid.” She made her way to the door and opened it for him. Deputy Perham put his hand on farm-boy's elbow to lead him back to his containment cell.

“Next time, remember that it's best to call the police and let us deal with things like this. Vigilantism is both dangerous and illegal.”

The detective went back to her seat to finish a few more of her notes before the next suspect was brought in.

He stared at the bars of the cell he was in. Again a cell. He could remember the first time like it had been yesterday (Though he was fairly sure it wasn't) that he had found himself in one of these. That time he had been alone and collared. He had met a young woman, who helped him, talked with him, met with him, and then started becoming squeamish because he had opted for the quite sensible notion of getting away. Sensible back then. He was fairly sure though that the officer he had met afterwards had buried any evidence of his misdoings deeply. He had seen to that. With a carrot and a stick. A big stick and a small carrot. He also was glad that they had not put him in a cell together with the young boy, who quite obviously was one of those people that made his head explode. Or only feel like it. A thing he could very well live without, thank you.

Exploding heads. And people who made them explode.

And now he was in a box again. A box with metal bars (but thankfully without collar) and waiting to be interrogated. Maybe they would have fun interrogating him, if they waited for say a day or two. Then they would have had to deal with the fact that he simply couldn't tell them the fact whether the crime had happened last week or last year. He was not very reliable in these regards. He was also not very forthcoming about his weaknesses. Or his strengths for that matter. This time the policemen had been duly informed not to touch his skin (not ever touch his skin) and left with that tidbit and their own fears. Surely not the most effective way of handling this, but it ensured that he was handled if not more respectfully, then at least with greater care then the other prisoners.

Oh wonderful prison. Had I mentioned I have been here before? Yes? Oh well....

A guard came, ripping Martin from his jumbled thought and to escort him to interrogation. Interrogation should be fun, shouldn't it? With a timemancer, who could, with the right incentive, tell the interrogator how often he had bitten his lower lip during the course of the last talk. But maybe not what he himself had had for breakfast (He naturally did not record what he ate. This was just as unimportant as if the weather was good!). Very good witness indeed. But the sir on the other side of the table wouldn't know that.

Sighing he got up from the hard cell floor he had rested on and followed the officer (who had not been polite, yet amiably kept his distance) to the room where he was to be questioned. How boring, wasn't it? His blue eyes were veiled to the end of telling that story. Inside he was close to panicking. Just a little.

Kid gloves, always with kid gloves when mutants were involved. At least, that's how this division treated it's prisoners. Actual gloves, too, were now a standard part of the NYPD uniform since Jocelyn had started here. One never knew when skin to skin contact would turn someone into a very nice marble lawn statue or a pile of green slime to be wiped up by the late shift custodian or a mind controlled zombie that turned her gun on her fellow officers. Not that Jocelyn had ever witnessed anything like that in Los Angeles or anything.

It was better to be safe than sorry.

The next suspect entered. Again Jocelyn smiled warmly. Being polite was a big part of the kid gloves mentality. It didn't always work to put people at ease, but a percentage of the time it did. She hadn't had anyone try to rip her head off, at least not yet.

“Please have a seat,” she motioned him forward to his chair with a gesture. “I have a few questions about the events of this morning for you. It shouldn't take a terribly long time if you cooperate,” she promised with a sneeze. He smelled like some kind of chemical that killed weeds or insects. The rest of his scent was slightly more difficult to discern under the strong smell of the poison. He was a mutant of some kind, but that was about all she could tell.

She hid her nose behind a handkerchief under the guise of wiping at a runny nose, “First, what is your name? Then, please describe the events that led you to be standing outside the house on Payson Avenue this morning.”

= If anything needs changing, please tell me!=
Ah. The humans had learned something it seemed. Gloves on them. And even respectful treatment (aside from the looks maybe, but Martin did not care about those. He was, after all, a quite dangerous individual to be around.) He was lead through the usual gray corridors, though, maybe in an effort to make them more appealing, had not only put up some of the usual crime fighting notices as spots of color on the wall, but also set a lone shrub into a corner, where, by lack of sunliught, its leaves were slowly wilting away into the brown nothingness of organic death.

And then he entered the interrogation room. The Sir behind the table was actually a she. Something maybe in another effort to be colorful. And polite she was, too. The veiled blue eyes, having lost so much of their sparkle, their often unusual attentiveness, their strange dangerous glean of the grown ups, was now nearly nothing more then the eyes of a barely voteable person in a national election. He noted of course her effort at hospitality, which was, in his eyes, strangely misplaced, even ridiculed by the surroundings. But he managed, in his slightly accented English, to convey a message of his own. “Thank you, but I would rather stand.” It was an effort to make the ridiculous proceeding go down a little more sweetly for him. They were not talking eye-to-eye yet was his interpretation, taking away some of her control. Her superiority. Subtle defiance. One also might just have called it the action of a scared late teenager.
And with these words, quite normally, usually, even normatively assumed a pose that he maybe should not have shown. He planted his hands between his back and placed the feet at shoulders distance. Strangely similar, though still somewhat unfamiliar it would look for those who had ever served in an armed force. A lapse in control as he realized only after the fact. Memories of the old times had surfaced. Of his younger times. The long-gone years of service. Sometimes they were just closer then the others. He was not thinking straight, he deduced, only after he had assumed his posture, which was, of course, a bad thing, seeing that he could not change it again without drawing to much attention to it. Maybe the marks in his face would serve as a distraction... they were a strange thing anyhow.

And then of course... the events. The interrogation as one could call it. Tell me and let me prick apart. A dangerous game if played with skilled opponents. And he was quite sure that his opposite was such a person. One did not let a fragile woman into a room such as this if she were not a wolf in (rather pretty) sheep's clothing. He would have to take his time. To think through what he had to say. Luckily... he had all the time of the world at his disposal. He pierced the veil of time again. With his mind, his eyes. Take what you need. As his body became a stone statue, he himself went back to the place, where his still-fresh memories were being slowly tarnished by others, overlapping. But as of now he still was lucky enough to know most of it. And tell, if she so wanted. “My name is Martin Stein.” Again that accent coming from somewhere European. “I was working, when I heard the sound of breaking glass. I naturally did not know what had transpired, so I went to see whether anyone was in need of assistance.” So far the first bit. “The houses window had been broken. A TV too. It lay somewhat off the TV stand, closer to the window then it could have traveled alone.” Uneccesary details were always useful. They might distract from what was really important. “Before you ask: I did not see the intruder at this point, but I heard something in the house. There were others there, who chased after him. I realized that he would come back out front to where the street was. And then... I blacked out.” Why he did not really know. Maybe one of the young fellows was one of those people that made his head explode when he got too close.

After all: He had met one like them before. “Next thing I knew you were there and the small one accused us of being the perpetrators of the crime. Is this a sufficient recount of the events?” He still stood. Looking. Slightly sad.

If he wanted to stand, that was fine with Jocelyn. Comfortable people spoke more, usually. This one seemed to be most comfortable in straight standing military posture. Also fine. The detective remained in her seat, table and yellow legal pad between herself and the soldier turned gardener (for who else would be using such large amounts of herbicide).

His statement was in part perfectly detailed; it was almost as if he was in a trance as he looked back into his memories. Then suddenly he came to a black hole in his recollection. Jocelyn was not fond of black holes and disapproval tugged down slightly at the corner of her smile.

“I have a few additional questions for clarification. First, would you describe the others who were at the scene with you: if and how you know them and what their movements were?” He was very precise when it came to objects, but completely nebulous when it came to the people involved in the crime.

“Second, explain to me your hypothesis as to how you came to black out?” He was the best one to tell if he experienced that sort of thing often or if he had received a head injury of some sort during the events of that morning. Perhaps he had a lump on the back of his head or something.

“I saw Mr. Cesendes, the one with the tail.” He added for clarification. There were after all not many people with tails in this building. Maybe unless you counted dogs as people. He did not do so. It was foolish. “We are acquainted.” No lie there. Just not the whole truth as one could guess. Better not to bring Mondragon medical up just yet. We both met near the scene of the robbery. Everybody else I neither know...” Not to present knowledge at least... And not to people that were here. The green fairy he was sure he had seen before. But he could not place her at present state of memory. Just that vague feeling that you knew someone was connected to her skin tone. “Nor had seen before the incident happened.” What followed was a pause of silence, of catching breaths and collecting thoughts. The usual social pause that got a little bit extensively extended. One might be able to call it awkward silence.

He had, of course, paid enough attention to movements to spot threats, but until the strange ave of pain had hit him, there had nothing of interest taken place. There was also the matter of not giving too detailed statements. Those tended to make people suspicious, did they not. And he still was quite weary of revealing the full extend of the benefits of his mutant power to another being. This part of his hand was something he liked to keep hidden until it was much too late for another victim to respond to his unnaturally perceptive ways. He glared at the eyes of the police officer as if tempted to either pull them out, or to distill from them the situation of her very soul, her mind that lay hidden right behind them.

On the other side there was no way of getting out of this until her questions were sufficiently answered.

“And as for your second question: I can only guess that it is related to my mutation.” And his cutting hand gesture was making quite clear that he did not want to venture further down that road of the conversation. Cut. “Some people just make my head feel like someone is sticking a trepan into it and stirring healthily.” His facial expression got slightly... distorted at remembering the pain. He had jotted down his meeting with that one special woman so thoroughly that he was quite sure that that might be the cause. Another cutting gesture ended everything. Changed it back to normal.

Back to the beginning, was it not? Questions and answers. “Would you object to telling me more about your division?” Just as innocent.