Encounterlogs
Brians Odd Encounter Sr Novel 240922
Brian's evening practice session on his guitar was abruptly interrupted by a series of loud, forceful knocks at his door. Accompanied by the authoritative shouts of the Massachusetts State Police demanding entry, the tranquility of his cozy, insulated room was shattered. Complying without hesitation, Brian opened the door to find two officers in stark uniform, their presence heavy with the intent of serious business. The officers, one tall and commanding, the other shorter with an impatient edge, announced they had a warrant for Brian's arrest under charges of first-degree murder, reading him his rights and preparing to search his apartment. Despite the gravity of the situation, Brian responded with calm compliance, though internally baffled and concerned, particularly grateful that his significant other, Crystal, was not there to endure the ordeal.
As the officers moved to cuff Brian and conduct their search, Brian contested the warrant's details, pointing out inaccuracies in the name, birth date, and his academic pursuits. Skeptical yet proceeding with protocol, the officers checked Brian's identification against the warrant, which prompted a quick, albeit grudging, acknowledgment of their mistake. With a shift from confrontation to apology, the tension in the air dissipated as the officers uncuffed Brian and began to retreat, their earlier authoritative demeanor replaced with embarrassment. Brian, maintaining his composure throughout the encounter, expressed his understanding and appreciation for the professionalism shown by the officers, despite the grave error. In the end, the officers departed, leaving Brian to reflect on the surreal and alarming experience, the quiet of his apartment a stark contrast to the night's earlier chaos.
(Brian's odd encounter(SRNovel):SRNovel)
[Sat Sep 21 2024]
In a cozy bedroom
This small but comfortably appointed room has a lot of open space, giving it the feel of being bigger than it really is. Three of the walls are painted an off-white, about the color of an eggshell, while the fourth serves as an accent wall in sage green. Soft lighting is provided by a small desk lamp, with the ceiling light usually turned off.
It is night, about 75F(23C) degrees, There is a waning gibbous moon.
(Someone has sent the state police after your target. Perhaps they're a real criminal or perhaps they've been framed, in either case it's up to them to get their arrest warrant handled and removed.
)
Brian shakes his hand out to get rid of the stiffness, then resets on the fretboard and continues to work on scales, focusing on the major and minor pentatonics this time.
The room was wrapped folded in the silence of decent insulation, only the occasional loud squeal of a vehicle or a particular thump from noisy neighbor - they must be moving heavy furniture - or the faint smells of food of early night. Between the gentle, soft noises of people settling in is hum of the refrigerator or whirr of laundry. The air is thick, warm, and unmoving, pressing down like a gentle blanket over everything. A faint glow from the small desk light illuminated Brian's face and hands as they wander across the strings, him practicing either from memory, ear, or string. It makes the shadows of the room darker, more intense, and allows more focus upon the instrument (whatever it might be) in Brian's hands. The sound of distant traffic outside gradually fade over time until they become little more than a low murmur, blending into the edges of solemn, solitary silence.
Then came the sound.
A loud, harsh bang: Sudden. A thunderclap cutting through the quiet? Startling and violent in its suddenness.
It reverberated through the apartment, rattling the walls, as if threatening the very foundation as it trembled beneath the force.
And then it came again, harder this time. Bang. Bang. Bang. It was unmistakable now, a deliberate pounding upon Brian's door. Louder, more insistent, echoing with purpose. The bedframe rattling slightly.
A third time. More urgent. More demanding. Coming with it in repeated, violent rapport, and with a voice. Bang. Bang. Bang. "Police! Open the door!" The words sliced through the air, muffled but unmistakable. The tone was harsh, commanding, managing to penetrate all the way to Brian's bedroom with its call.
"...the fuck?" Brian says. He places his guitar back on the stand, then walks down the hallway to the door. He looks through the peephole to see if it's actually the police outside.
Through the peephole, the hallway stretched out in a cool, humid haze from the earlier storms and flooding, awash in dim, artificial light. The flickering overhead bulbs cast an anemic, pale glow that seemed to drain all warmth from the narrow corridor, leaving the walls to loom like silent sentinels, their long, thin shadows creeping and merging in the corners. The air in the hallway felt thick and heavy, as if weighed down by the oppressive stillness that clung to every inch of the building Brian lived in.
There they were.
Not the familiar uniforms of local deputies or the county sheriffs office, who might knock about a noise complaint or a neighbors concern. No, these were something altogether more serious, more official. The full-on dark-and-light blue uniforms of the Massachusetts's State Police, crisp and almost menacing under the dim light, stood out in stark contrast to the bland, beige walls of the hallway. Their gray-blue campaign hats were perched stiffly atop their heads, casting shadows across their faces, making their expressions harder to read. Even through the peephole, Brian could see the sharp lines of their uniforms, the black belts weighed down by holstered weapons, radios, and other tools of their trade.
The lettering of the patch on their shoulders becoming visible as they shifted slightly, light blue on dark blue with the state symbol beneath. MASSACHUSSETS STATE POLICE. Unmistakable and distinct in its clarity. And there was more: across their chests, the thick, reinforced kevlar armor they wore stood out, adding a layer of cold, bureaucratic menace.
These officers werent here for anything routine. They were here on serious business, and whatever that business was, it had led them to his door.
One of the officers, a tall man with a broad, imposing frame, still had his fist raised, hovering just inches from the door as if he were ready to pound again at any second. His expression, though partially obscured by the brim of his hat, was hard, set in the practiced neutrality of someone used to issuing commands and expecting immediate compliance. Beside him stood a shorter, stockier officer, his stance rigid with barely-contained agitation. His hand was clenched tightly around what looked like a roll of paper, a warrant, gripped so tightly the edges were bent, and their eyes darted toward the door, lips pressed into a thin, impatient line. He shifted on her feet, weight rolling from one leg to the other, as if he were ready to barrel through the door herself if Brian didnt move quickly enough.
"We have a warrant!" the taller officer barked, his voice cutting through the air with the force of a thunderclap. The sound reverberated down the hallway, bouncing off the walls and amplifying in the confined space "Open the door! This is the police!"
The words hit like a sledgehammer, sharper, louder this timethere was no mistaking the urgency, no room for hesitation. This wasnt a request anymore. It was an order, a demand that hung in the air like an electric charge.
Brian opens the door, and takes a step back, keeping his hands in plain sight. "I am complying."
Brian picks through the thoughts racing through his mind at this moment, wondering who or what could have led the police to their door. 'I'm glad Crystal isn't here for this.' he thinks to himself. But what could it be? He doesn't do or get involved with drugs, or any other kind of criminal activity that he can think of. So what would bring not just the cops, but the STATE cops, to his door?
The taller officer, the one who had been doing most of the talking, nods curtly but says nothing as he steps past Brian, his eyes scanning the apartment with the precision of someone trained to see what others miss. The other officer follows suit, his posture rigid, his face still taut with that same tense impatience, like hes ready for this to escalate at any moment as his hand is on his holster.
As they get closer: It is clear that what they wear aren't costumes. Aren't some thugs or the syndicate or some other group trying to snooker or take him in.
The taller officer - flanking Brian, the man may now realize, as the two set up on opposite sides of the room. A click, clacking the snap of handcuffs being opened up. He finally speaks, his voice level but firm. "You're under arrest. Hands behind your back."
The other, shorter officer, unrolls the warrant, picking up where the other left off. There's a brusqueness to it. This isn't a detainment, or them trying to get him to incriminate himself. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney and if you cannot afford one, the court will appoint one," He states, clearly and succicintly, studying Brian's face to see if it seems to register. "We will also be searching the rest of your apartment. Do you understand?"
"I understand. I will comply. But I'd like to see the warrant, and I'd like to know the charges under which I am being arrested." Having said this, Brian places his hands behind his back as instructed, his mind still racing, trying to figure out what this is about, and what to do from here.
As soon as Brian feels the cold, quiet click of the cuffs around his wrists as the arms are twisted to make slipping free difficult - albeit slightly uncomfortable - combined with the level-headed way he's handling it, there's a slow unwinding of the tension. The hand lifts away from the gun. He's guided to sit in the chair by the taller of the pair - who then goes off to search the room. The Temple, at least, will handle any licenses for weaponry found.
The warrant is moved into his line of sight, so he can more carefully read it. Brian Melonin, under arrest. First degree murder, alleged. Birth date April 2, 2004. The picture is somewhat blurry, and there's his apartment and address. Major in biochemistry and minor in music.
"That's not me." He states this calmly, sitting still in the chair. "My last name is Miller, not Melonin. That's not my birthday. And I am not a biochem major or a music minor. I study Evolutionary Biology, and havn't picked a minor yet." Brian says.
"Got proof?" The stockier of the officers grunt as he takes the warrant away, folding it up and tucking it into a pocket. It seems his expression is disbelieving, doubtful, and annoyed. One hand remains on his shoulder as the thump of the taller man's boots come back. "Clear," gets called out from behind Brian, the two working together like a smooth machine.
Brian nods. "I have my ID, in my wallet. Also, I am a member of The Temple. If you contact them, they can also verify who I am, and, more importantly, who I'm not."
One man takes a step back. The hand goes back to his holster. "Alright, up." He commands Brian, leaving a certain amount of space between them and swinging the door shut. The other of the pair - which should have patted Brian down to begin with for hidden weapons - proceeds to do exactly that if Brian obliges before fishing out his wallet. Given the past activities... not too surprising.
He fishes out whatever kind of wallet Brian has... Leather? Plastic? Duct tape? Unfolding it and extracting the ID and stepping over to double-check the warrant with a flashlight.
There's an annoyed grumble and instantly the commanding, the demanding turns to a melting, sort of head-ducking apology.
"Sorry, Mr. Miller. We'll just let you go and get out of your hair."
"Not a problem. You're doing your jobs. I appreciate you handling this professionally and not taking me to the ground or anything like that." Brian says with a respectful nod.
Quick nodding. The shorter one gives the taller of the two a sort of - exasperated squint. Whatever silent communication there in response to Brian mentioning about professionalism gets moved on. The IDs are slid back in place, the cuffs are removed. A pat on the back and the wallet returned.
Apparently being polite, careful, and dealing with bureaucratic gears as they are... as the two officers try to get back to doing their jobs.
Hopefully, correctly, this time.
As the officers moved to cuff Brian and conduct their search, Brian contested the warrant's details, pointing out inaccuracies in the name, birth date, and his academic pursuits. Skeptical yet proceeding with protocol, the officers checked Brian's identification against the warrant, which prompted a quick, albeit grudging, acknowledgment of their mistake. With a shift from confrontation to apology, the tension in the air dissipated as the officers uncuffed Brian and began to retreat, their earlier authoritative demeanor replaced with embarrassment. Brian, maintaining his composure throughout the encounter, expressed his understanding and appreciation for the professionalism shown by the officers, despite the grave error. In the end, the officers departed, leaving Brian to reflect on the surreal and alarming experience, the quiet of his apartment a stark contrast to the night's earlier chaos.
(Brian's odd encounter(SRNovel):SRNovel)
[Sat Sep 21 2024]
In a cozy bedroom
This small but comfortably appointed room has a lot of open space, giving it the feel of being bigger than it really is. Three of the walls are painted an off-white, about the color of an eggshell, while the fourth serves as an accent wall in sage green. Soft lighting is provided by a small desk lamp, with the ceiling light usually turned off.
It is night, about 75F(23C) degrees, There is a waning gibbous moon.
(Someone has sent the state police after your target. Perhaps they're a real criminal or perhaps they've been framed, in either case it's up to them to get their arrest warrant handled and removed.
)
Brian shakes his hand out to get rid of the stiffness, then resets on the fretboard and continues to work on scales, focusing on the major and minor pentatonics this time.
The room was wrapped folded in the silence of decent insulation, only the occasional loud squeal of a vehicle or a particular thump from noisy neighbor - they must be moving heavy furniture - or the faint smells of food of early night. Between the gentle, soft noises of people settling in is hum of the refrigerator or whirr of laundry. The air is thick, warm, and unmoving, pressing down like a gentle blanket over everything. A faint glow from the small desk light illuminated Brian's face and hands as they wander across the strings, him practicing either from memory, ear, or string. It makes the shadows of the room darker, more intense, and allows more focus upon the instrument (whatever it might be) in Brian's hands. The sound of distant traffic outside gradually fade over time until they become little more than a low murmur, blending into the edges of solemn, solitary silence.
Then came the sound.
A loud, harsh bang: Sudden. A thunderclap cutting through the quiet? Startling and violent in its suddenness.
It reverberated through the apartment, rattling the walls, as if threatening the very foundation as it trembled beneath the force.
And then it came again, harder this time. Bang. Bang. Bang. It was unmistakable now, a deliberate pounding upon Brian's door. Louder, more insistent, echoing with purpose. The bedframe rattling slightly.
A third time. More urgent. More demanding. Coming with it in repeated, violent rapport, and with a voice. Bang. Bang. Bang. "Police! Open the door!" The words sliced through the air, muffled but unmistakable. The tone was harsh, commanding, managing to penetrate all the way to Brian's bedroom with its call.
"...the fuck?" Brian says. He places his guitar back on the stand, then walks down the hallway to the door. He looks through the peephole to see if it's actually the police outside.
Through the peephole, the hallway stretched out in a cool, humid haze from the earlier storms and flooding, awash in dim, artificial light. The flickering overhead bulbs cast an anemic, pale glow that seemed to drain all warmth from the narrow corridor, leaving the walls to loom like silent sentinels, their long, thin shadows creeping and merging in the corners. The air in the hallway felt thick and heavy, as if weighed down by the oppressive stillness that clung to every inch of the building Brian lived in.
There they were.
Not the familiar uniforms of local deputies or the county sheriffs office, who might knock about a noise complaint or a neighbors concern. No, these were something altogether more serious, more official. The full-on dark-and-light blue uniforms of the Massachusetts's State Police, crisp and almost menacing under the dim light, stood out in stark contrast to the bland, beige walls of the hallway. Their gray-blue campaign hats were perched stiffly atop their heads, casting shadows across their faces, making their expressions harder to read. Even through the peephole, Brian could see the sharp lines of their uniforms, the black belts weighed down by holstered weapons, radios, and other tools of their trade.
The lettering of the patch on their shoulders becoming visible as they shifted slightly, light blue on dark blue with the state symbol beneath. MASSACHUSSETS STATE POLICE. Unmistakable and distinct in its clarity. And there was more: across their chests, the thick, reinforced kevlar armor they wore stood out, adding a layer of cold, bureaucratic menace.
These officers werent here for anything routine. They were here on serious business, and whatever that business was, it had led them to his door.
One of the officers, a tall man with a broad, imposing frame, still had his fist raised, hovering just inches from the door as if he were ready to pound again at any second. His expression, though partially obscured by the brim of his hat, was hard, set in the practiced neutrality of someone used to issuing commands and expecting immediate compliance. Beside him stood a shorter, stockier officer, his stance rigid with barely-contained agitation. His hand was clenched tightly around what looked like a roll of paper, a warrant, gripped so tightly the edges were bent, and their eyes darted toward the door, lips pressed into a thin, impatient line. He shifted on her feet, weight rolling from one leg to the other, as if he were ready to barrel through the door herself if Brian didnt move quickly enough.
"We have a warrant!" the taller officer barked, his voice cutting through the air with the force of a thunderclap. The sound reverberated down the hallway, bouncing off the walls and amplifying in the confined space "Open the door! This is the police!"
The words hit like a sledgehammer, sharper, louder this timethere was no mistaking the urgency, no room for hesitation. This wasnt a request anymore. It was an order, a demand that hung in the air like an electric charge.
Brian opens the door, and takes a step back, keeping his hands in plain sight. "I am complying."
Brian picks through the thoughts racing through his mind at this moment, wondering who or what could have led the police to their door. 'I'm glad Crystal isn't here for this.' he thinks to himself. But what could it be? He doesn't do or get involved with drugs, or any other kind of criminal activity that he can think of. So what would bring not just the cops, but the STATE cops, to his door?
The taller officer, the one who had been doing most of the talking, nods curtly but says nothing as he steps past Brian, his eyes scanning the apartment with the precision of someone trained to see what others miss. The other officer follows suit, his posture rigid, his face still taut with that same tense impatience, like hes ready for this to escalate at any moment as his hand is on his holster.
As they get closer: It is clear that what they wear aren't costumes. Aren't some thugs or the syndicate or some other group trying to snooker or take him in.
The taller officer - flanking Brian, the man may now realize, as the two set up on opposite sides of the room. A click, clacking the snap of handcuffs being opened up. He finally speaks, his voice level but firm. "You're under arrest. Hands behind your back."
The other, shorter officer, unrolls the warrant, picking up where the other left off. There's a brusqueness to it. This isn't a detainment, or them trying to get him to incriminate himself. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney and if you cannot afford one, the court will appoint one," He states, clearly and succicintly, studying Brian's face to see if it seems to register. "We will also be searching the rest of your apartment. Do you understand?"
"I understand. I will comply. But I'd like to see the warrant, and I'd like to know the charges under which I am being arrested." Having said this, Brian places his hands behind his back as instructed, his mind still racing, trying to figure out what this is about, and what to do from here.
As soon as Brian feels the cold, quiet click of the cuffs around his wrists as the arms are twisted to make slipping free difficult - albeit slightly uncomfortable - combined with the level-headed way he's handling it, there's a slow unwinding of the tension. The hand lifts away from the gun. He's guided to sit in the chair by the taller of the pair - who then goes off to search the room. The Temple, at least, will handle any licenses for weaponry found.
The warrant is moved into his line of sight, so he can more carefully read it. Brian Melonin, under arrest. First degree murder, alleged. Birth date April 2, 2004. The picture is somewhat blurry, and there's his apartment and address. Major in biochemistry and minor in music.
"That's not me." He states this calmly, sitting still in the chair. "My last name is Miller, not Melonin. That's not my birthday. And I am not a biochem major or a music minor. I study Evolutionary Biology, and havn't picked a minor yet." Brian says.
"Got proof?" The stockier of the officers grunt as he takes the warrant away, folding it up and tucking it into a pocket. It seems his expression is disbelieving, doubtful, and annoyed. One hand remains on his shoulder as the thump of the taller man's boots come back. "Clear," gets called out from behind Brian, the two working together like a smooth machine.
Brian nods. "I have my ID, in my wallet. Also, I am a member of The Temple. If you contact them, they can also verify who I am, and, more importantly, who I'm not."
One man takes a step back. The hand goes back to his holster. "Alright, up." He commands Brian, leaving a certain amount of space between them and swinging the door shut. The other of the pair - which should have patted Brian down to begin with for hidden weapons - proceeds to do exactly that if Brian obliges before fishing out his wallet. Given the past activities... not too surprising.
He fishes out whatever kind of wallet Brian has... Leather? Plastic? Duct tape? Unfolding it and extracting the ID and stepping over to double-check the warrant with a flashlight.
There's an annoyed grumble and instantly the commanding, the demanding turns to a melting, sort of head-ducking apology.
"Sorry, Mr. Miller. We'll just let you go and get out of your hair."
"Not a problem. You're doing your jobs. I appreciate you handling this professionally and not taking me to the ground or anything like that." Brian says with a respectful nod.
Quick nodding. The shorter one gives the taller of the two a sort of - exasperated squint. Whatever silent communication there in response to Brian mentioning about professionalism gets moved on. The IDs are slid back in place, the cuffs are removed. A pat on the back and the wallet returned.
Apparently being polite, careful, and dealing with bureaucratic gears as they are... as the two officers try to get back to doing their jobs.
Hopefully, correctly, this time.