Encounterlogs
Freyas Odd Encounter Sr Dean 240730
At the elegant Harper's Bazaar, amidst the luxury and the light dance music, an odd encounter unfolds. Officer Grant Turner, a state police officer from the Massachusetts State Police department, enters the women's boutique with a stern mission. His target: Freya, who is currently embroiled in a misunderstanding involving a special order gone awry. The situation spirals as Turner, under the guise of browsing, seeks out Freya with a purpose that's as clear as the badge clipped to his belt. Freya, distracted by issues with a customs-held psyduck onesie meant for her housemate, finds herself unwittingly at the center of Turner's investigation. Oblivious to the impending confrontation, she grapples with the frustration of international shipping and the whimsical ambition of starting a Pokémon onesie fashion trend.
The story reaches a critical junction when Turner, disregarding the boutique's ambiance of consumer delight and aromatic indulgence, corners Freya for a stern talk. He reveals the existence of an arrest warrant in her name, mistakenly linking her to ophioids intercepted at the border. Freya's response is one of bewildered innocence; she leverages her charm and a sincere explanation of her onesie ambitions to sway Turner's conviction. In an unexpected turn, the officer's professionalism crumbles under Freya's gaze; his firm stance softens, influenced not by evidence, but by the persuasive innocence in Freya's eyes. What starts as a routine investigation ends in a bizarre twist—Turner, spellbound by Freya's words, aborts the mission, leaving the store and the case behind, swallowed by his own confusion and a newfound apathy towards the allegations against Freya. This departure marks not just the end of an odd encounter but the resolution of a misunderstanding through the least expected means: a blend of innocence, charm, and an implausible onesie-related alibi.
(Freya's odd encounter(SRDean):SRDean)
[Mon Jul 29 2024]
In the accessory and gift section of Harper's Bazaar
The walls of this upscale establishment have been painted in an ecru shade so as not to detract from the merchandise. The floor is made up of pale peach marble tiles, with bits of soft gray that run through them like tiny, fracturing lightning bolts. Tall, white-washed wooden display cases with glass shelving lines each wall with evenly uniform spacing throughout, each section housing a table in the middle. The table in this particular section holds jewelry and accessories of all different styles and materials. The store appears well stocked and kept remarkably clean.
Peppy and upbeat dance music constantly pipes through the stores speakers, just loud enough to hear without interrupting conversation.
It is morning, about 83F(28C) degrees,
(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.
)
The boutique air hums with the energy of Harper's Bazaar, the elegant setting a stark contrast to the tension lurking beneath the surface of this quaint, very early Haven morning. Something is electrifying, its there in the air, a premonition of a bad spell of events, danger, intrigue - it is hard to place one's finger on it, but it is felt all the same. Meanwhile, here, in the now, the ecru-painted walls blend seamlessly into the background, allowing the vibrant displays of luxury accessories and jewelry to take center stage. Soft gray veins in the peach marble floor glint subtly under the delicate lighting, adding an air of sophistication to everything on put up for sale for the curious looker and the wealthy purchaser.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a crisp, navy suit enters the shop, then -- a rare thing, considering this is a women's clothing store. The state police badge clipped to his belt barely visible under his tailored jacket. His name is Officer Grant Turner, says so on the tag on his breast, and he moves with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the room with practiced efficiency. The peppy, upbeat dance music playing from the stores speakers contrasts sharply with the stern look on his face.@line
He approaches one of the white-washed wooden display cases, pretending to admire a collection of intricate silver necklaces. His gaze, however, is fixed on the reflections in the glass, watching the shoppers and store employees going about their business. His target, Freya, must be here somewhere. Officer Turner turns to the sales associate behind the counter, a young woman with meticulously styled hair and a welcoming smile. "Excuse me," he says, his voice polite but firm. "I'm looking for someone who might be in the store right now. Can you help me?"
The associates smile falters slightly as she catches sight of his badge. "Of course, sir," she replies, trying to maintain her composure. "Who are you looking for?" "I'm looking for a woman named Freya," Turner says, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "It's very important that I find her." The associate glances around the store nervously. "I believe I saw her near the jewelry section," she says, pointing towards the middle of the room. "Silver hair with pink tips, can't miss her."
"Thank you," Turner nods, his eyes already moving in the direction she indicated. He starts to make his way through the store, the polished marble floor echoing softly with each step of his meticulously spit shined combat boots. The jewelry section is well-stocked, with pieces of all styles and materials catching the light and sparkling invitingly in the passing reflection of this brunette of a man that appears all work and no play.
As he approaches, perhaps hoping to see Freya, Turner takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the task ahead. Its time to confront her and get to the bottom of this situation - whatever it may be that clearly woke him for a very early drive to get to here all the way from Massachusetts State Police department that must've been quite a drive -- and more than that, whatever he's here for, he's here despite the local authority presence in HSD.
Freya meanwhile was wishing she wasn't there. But there had been an issue with one of her special orders. Something about a psyduck onsie that she had special ordered for her housemate being stuck in customs or something and because it had been so long since she had ordered it - she had decided to answer the phone and grudgling trudge into the harper's despite wanting nothing more than to be in bed all day. Her hand taps idly as the store clerk types into the computer, "Yeah sorry Ma'am.... Customs have kept it since it's from China and..." The clerk squeaks at the appearance of the copper behind of Freya and Freya turns around to lean against the counter. She isn't quite stranding straight, favouring one hip as she frowns at the officer. "Can I help you officer?"
Officer Turner maintains his steady gaze, taking note of the clerk's guarded posture. "Ma'am, I need to speak with you privately," he says, but not to her. Those blue eyes and the steady but insistent voice of him had turned directly for Freya. He gestures towards a quieter corner of the store, away from the curious eyes of the other shoppers - the clerk herself, though he seems all the more aware of the conversation taking place about some onesie, the word china, and the customs themselves. He stacks on shortly after, while quite forcefully, starts to usher Freya in a faux polite manner, the sort that only a genuine cop can pull off, towards where he gestures. "It's about an ongoing investigation."
The noise of the store fades slightly, the upbeat music now a distant background hum as they move towards a more private spot. The polished marble floor beneath them echoes softly with each step, and the ambient chatter of other customers grows quieter. They pass by elegantly arranged displays of sparkling jewelry and designer handbags, each piece meticulously positioned to catch the light just right.
someone Turner glances around, noting the subtle scent of expensive perfume lingering in the air, a blend of floral and citrus notes that seems to hang in the atmosphere. The store is impeccably clean, every surface polished to a high shine, reflecting the tasteful lighting that casts a warm glow over everything. He's poised for inspection, investigation, and if he'd rather die than let anything go amiss under his watchful eye. Stopped by a tall display case filled with delicate porcelain figurines, the sort that women out for a clothes shopping just can't help but gush about because they're all adorable animals or such things - The gentle hum of the stores air conditioning creates a soft, constant background noise, adding to the surreal calmness of the moment that precedes him speaking.
"I'm Officer Grant Turner with the state police," Turner begins, his tone professional. "There's an arrest warrant issued in your name. We need to get this matter sorted out immediately." He pauses, watching her reaction closely, ready to gauge her response and proceed accordingly. The air between them is thick with tension, the pristine setting of the store now feeling incongruous with the gravity of the situation. "Having trouble with customs?"
Officer Turner maintains his steady gaze, taking note of the clerk's guarded posture. "Ma'am, I need to speak with you privately," he says, but not to her. Those blue eyes and the steady but insistent voice of him had turned directly for Freya. He gestures towards a quieter corner of the store, away from the curious eyes of the other shoppers - the clerk herself, though he seems all the more aware of the conversation taking place about some onesie, the word china, and the customs themselves. He stacks on shortly after, while quite forcefully, starts to usher Freya in a faux polite manner, the sort that only a genuine cop can pull off, towards where he gestures. "It's about an ongoing investigation."
The noise of the store fades slightly, the upbeat music now a distant background hum as they move towards a more private spot. The polished marble floor beneath them echoes softly with each step, and the ambient chatter of other customers grows quieter. They pass by elegantly arranged displays of sparkling jewelry and designer handbags, each piece meticulously positioned to catch the light just right.
Yet Turner glances around, noting the subtle scent of expensive perfume lingering in the air, a blend of floral and citrus notes that seems to hang in the atmosphere. The store is impeccably clean, every surface polished to a high shine, reflecting the tasteful lighting that casts a warm glow over everything. He's poised for inspection, investigation, and if he'd rather die than let anything go amiss under his watchful eye. Stopped by a tall display case filled with delicate porcelain figurines, the sort that women out for a clothes shopping just can't help but gush about because they're all adorable animals or such things - The gentle hum of the stores air conditioning creates a soft, constant background noise, adding to the surreal calmness of the moment that precedes him speaking.
"I'm Officer Grant Turner with the state police," Turner begins, his tone professional. "There's an arrest warrant issued in your name. We need to get this matter sorted out immediately." He pauses, watching her reaction closely, ready to gauge her response and proceed accordingly. The air between them is thick with tension, the pristine setting of the store now feeling incongruous with the gravity of the situation. "Having trouble with customs?"
Although Officer Turner might be feeling tension all Freya is feeling is ..bewilderment as he speaks to her. She squints at him, shaking her head as if she's still muddled from events the day earlier and there is a distinct limp as she makes her way to the back of the store. "Wretched my hip." She tells him believing until when he finally speaks that surely he must want her to assist in a case or something. She sinks down on one of those posh boyfriend chairs outside of the waiting room and then looks up at the officer only to blink a few more times. "A warrent?" She asks with an raised eyebrow, "And yes.. but I'm trying to start a pokemon onsie fashion craze. And the shipping is taking forever. Is this... About onsies?" She asks incredulously.
"It may very well be." The Officer answers in that steeled tone, reaches for his belongings - and retrieves a small booklet from underneath his navy coat. It spends a while in his fingers, flipped through and inspected so he can find the relevant page - a small series of scribbled notes that he certainly doesn't let her get a good look at them all, but he does uphold it to her now. A picture, customs - exactly that, of a few packages addresses to her, drawn and circled around the photo he stuck on his manual investigation keepsake. He doesn't seem to be interested in her wrenched hip, or her, for that matter, while he begins to flip to the next. This time, it isn't shown to her, inspsected with his eyes while he speaks. "I'm going to need you to come down to the station with us, where we'll finish the paperwork necessary to transfer you with an escort to Boston first, then to our department. This isn't anything extremely serious, yet, but it would be in your best interest to assist us by coming with me now so we can have a chat about why your order got caught with ophioids at the border." It wasn't cocaine, at least. His eyes do track up to hers, then, all narrow, serious and piercing. "Unless you've done something bad, in which case.." One of his hands separate from the notebook to land at his hip - push away his coat, and hold not a gun, but a his two-way radio.
Freya stares at the officer as he puts his hand on his radio and she just smiles as she spreads her hands out, "I didn't order any opiods officer. /And I think you should trust and believe in me/." She tells him as she catches his gaze, her teal eyes staring into his. "I truely only ordered that onsie for my roommate... I even have one myself of an arcanine. I didn't order any opiods you have the wrong person I'm afraid... So why don't you go and take the opiods out and have the onsie delivered so I don't have to risk the same thing happening when I order another onsie? International shipping is sooo hard you know." She pouts out her lower lip slightly at the officer, "I don't think anything else is necessary... You should just close this case as a shipper taking advantage of a poor girl in haven trying to make nice with her friends yeah?"
Something cracks, then, in the Officer's eyes. He's frozen stock still where he is, and the whole look of composure nestled in his gaze, in all of him, is gone. Slackjawed, and despite the stern knit of his brows, he looks on with an aura of total lack of brains. "You didn't order any opioids." He drawls after her, repeating each word. "You only ordered a onesie, and you even have an arcanine one for yourself." He's possibly not even aware of what he's spouting, but his hand drops, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand to get rid of that stupid drool. "Have a good day, ma'am." The words are bumbled out, and he turns to walk away from the store - back the way he came, except with a lot less spazz, mystery and cool cop attitude. Just a mindless revenant that possibly won't wake out of his daze for a few hours, if not more, until he's fought valiantly to drop charges on Freya and focus on the real target.
The story reaches a critical junction when Turner, disregarding the boutique's ambiance of consumer delight and aromatic indulgence, corners Freya for a stern talk. He reveals the existence of an arrest warrant in her name, mistakenly linking her to ophioids intercepted at the border. Freya's response is one of bewildered innocence; she leverages her charm and a sincere explanation of her onesie ambitions to sway Turner's conviction. In an unexpected turn, the officer's professionalism crumbles under Freya's gaze; his firm stance softens, influenced not by evidence, but by the persuasive innocence in Freya's eyes. What starts as a routine investigation ends in a bizarre twist—Turner, spellbound by Freya's words, aborts the mission, leaving the store and the case behind, swallowed by his own confusion and a newfound apathy towards the allegations against Freya. This departure marks not just the end of an odd encounter but the resolution of a misunderstanding through the least expected means: a blend of innocence, charm, and an implausible onesie-related alibi.
(Freya's odd encounter(SRDean):SRDean)
[Mon Jul 29 2024]
In the accessory and gift section of Harper's Bazaar
The walls of this upscale establishment have been painted in an ecru shade so as not to detract from the merchandise. The floor is made up of pale peach marble tiles, with bits of soft gray that run through them like tiny, fracturing lightning bolts. Tall, white-washed wooden display cases with glass shelving lines each wall with evenly uniform spacing throughout, each section housing a table in the middle. The table in this particular section holds jewelry and accessories of all different styles and materials. The store appears well stocked and kept remarkably clean.
Peppy and upbeat dance music constantly pipes through the stores speakers, just loud enough to hear without interrupting conversation.
It is morning, about 83F(28C) degrees,
(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.
)
The boutique air hums with the energy of Harper's Bazaar, the elegant setting a stark contrast to the tension lurking beneath the surface of this quaint, very early Haven morning. Something is electrifying, its there in the air, a premonition of a bad spell of events, danger, intrigue - it is hard to place one's finger on it, but it is felt all the same. Meanwhile, here, in the now, the ecru-painted walls blend seamlessly into the background, allowing the vibrant displays of luxury accessories and jewelry to take center stage. Soft gray veins in the peach marble floor glint subtly under the delicate lighting, adding an air of sophistication to everything on put up for sale for the curious looker and the wealthy purchaser.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in a crisp, navy suit enters the shop, then -- a rare thing, considering this is a women's clothing store. The state police badge clipped to his belt barely visible under his tailored jacket. His name is Officer Grant Turner, says so on the tag on his breast, and he moves with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the room with practiced efficiency. The peppy, upbeat dance music playing from the stores speakers contrasts sharply with the stern look on his face.@line
He approaches one of the white-washed wooden display cases, pretending to admire a collection of intricate silver necklaces. His gaze, however, is fixed on the reflections in the glass, watching the shoppers and store employees going about their business. His target, Freya, must be here somewhere. Officer Turner turns to the sales associate behind the counter, a young woman with meticulously styled hair and a welcoming smile. "Excuse me," he says, his voice polite but firm. "I'm looking for someone who might be in the store right now. Can you help me?"
The associates smile falters slightly as she catches sight of his badge. "Of course, sir," she replies, trying to maintain her composure. "Who are you looking for?" "I'm looking for a woman named Freya," Turner says, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "It's very important that I find her." The associate glances around the store nervously. "I believe I saw her near the jewelry section," she says, pointing towards the middle of the room. "Silver hair with pink tips, can't miss her."
"Thank you," Turner nods, his eyes already moving in the direction she indicated. He starts to make his way through the store, the polished marble floor echoing softly with each step of his meticulously spit shined combat boots. The jewelry section is well-stocked, with pieces of all styles and materials catching the light and sparkling invitingly in the passing reflection of this brunette of a man that appears all work and no play.
As he approaches, perhaps hoping to see Freya, Turner takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the task ahead. Its time to confront her and get to the bottom of this situation - whatever it may be that clearly woke him for a very early drive to get to here all the way from Massachusetts State Police department that must've been quite a drive -- and more than that, whatever he's here for, he's here despite the local authority presence in HSD.
Freya meanwhile was wishing she wasn't there. But there had been an issue with one of her special orders. Something about a psyduck onsie that she had special ordered for her housemate being stuck in customs or something and because it had been so long since she had ordered it - she had decided to answer the phone and grudgling trudge into the harper's despite wanting nothing more than to be in bed all day. Her hand taps idly as the store clerk types into the computer, "Yeah sorry Ma'am.... Customs have kept it since it's from China and..." The clerk squeaks at the appearance of the copper behind of Freya and Freya turns around to lean against the counter. She isn't quite stranding straight, favouring one hip as she frowns at the officer. "Can I help you officer?"
Officer Turner maintains his steady gaze, taking note of the clerk's guarded posture. "Ma'am, I need to speak with you privately," he says, but not to her. Those blue eyes and the steady but insistent voice of him had turned directly for Freya. He gestures towards a quieter corner of the store, away from the curious eyes of the other shoppers - the clerk herself, though he seems all the more aware of the conversation taking place about some onesie, the word china, and the customs themselves. He stacks on shortly after, while quite forcefully, starts to usher Freya in a faux polite manner, the sort that only a genuine cop can pull off, towards where he gestures. "It's about an ongoing investigation."
The noise of the store fades slightly, the upbeat music now a distant background hum as they move towards a more private spot. The polished marble floor beneath them echoes softly with each step, and the ambient chatter of other customers grows quieter. They pass by elegantly arranged displays of sparkling jewelry and designer handbags, each piece meticulously positioned to catch the light just right.
someone Turner glances around, noting the subtle scent of expensive perfume lingering in the air, a blend of floral and citrus notes that seems to hang in the atmosphere. The store is impeccably clean, every surface polished to a high shine, reflecting the tasteful lighting that casts a warm glow over everything. He's poised for inspection, investigation, and if he'd rather die than let anything go amiss under his watchful eye. Stopped by a tall display case filled with delicate porcelain figurines, the sort that women out for a clothes shopping just can't help but gush about because they're all adorable animals or such things - The gentle hum of the stores air conditioning creates a soft, constant background noise, adding to the surreal calmness of the moment that precedes him speaking.
"I'm Officer Grant Turner with the state police," Turner begins, his tone professional. "There's an arrest warrant issued in your name. We need to get this matter sorted out immediately." He pauses, watching her reaction closely, ready to gauge her response and proceed accordingly. The air between them is thick with tension, the pristine setting of the store now feeling incongruous with the gravity of the situation. "Having trouble with customs?"
Officer Turner maintains his steady gaze, taking note of the clerk's guarded posture. "Ma'am, I need to speak with you privately," he says, but not to her. Those blue eyes and the steady but insistent voice of him had turned directly for Freya. He gestures towards a quieter corner of the store, away from the curious eyes of the other shoppers - the clerk herself, though he seems all the more aware of the conversation taking place about some onesie, the word china, and the customs themselves. He stacks on shortly after, while quite forcefully, starts to usher Freya in a faux polite manner, the sort that only a genuine cop can pull off, towards where he gestures. "It's about an ongoing investigation."
The noise of the store fades slightly, the upbeat music now a distant background hum as they move towards a more private spot. The polished marble floor beneath them echoes softly with each step, and the ambient chatter of other customers grows quieter. They pass by elegantly arranged displays of sparkling jewelry and designer handbags, each piece meticulously positioned to catch the light just right.
Yet Turner glances around, noting the subtle scent of expensive perfume lingering in the air, a blend of floral and citrus notes that seems to hang in the atmosphere. The store is impeccably clean, every surface polished to a high shine, reflecting the tasteful lighting that casts a warm glow over everything. He's poised for inspection, investigation, and if he'd rather die than let anything go amiss under his watchful eye. Stopped by a tall display case filled with delicate porcelain figurines, the sort that women out for a clothes shopping just can't help but gush about because they're all adorable animals or such things - The gentle hum of the stores air conditioning creates a soft, constant background noise, adding to the surreal calmness of the moment that precedes him speaking.
"I'm Officer Grant Turner with the state police," Turner begins, his tone professional. "There's an arrest warrant issued in your name. We need to get this matter sorted out immediately." He pauses, watching her reaction closely, ready to gauge her response and proceed accordingly. The air between them is thick with tension, the pristine setting of the store now feeling incongruous with the gravity of the situation. "Having trouble with customs?"
Although Officer Turner might be feeling tension all Freya is feeling is ..bewilderment as he speaks to her. She squints at him, shaking her head as if she's still muddled from events the day earlier and there is a distinct limp as she makes her way to the back of the store. "Wretched my hip." She tells him believing until when he finally speaks that surely he must want her to assist in a case or something. She sinks down on one of those posh boyfriend chairs outside of the waiting room and then looks up at the officer only to blink a few more times. "A warrent?" She asks with an raised eyebrow, "And yes.. but I'm trying to start a pokemon onsie fashion craze. And the shipping is taking forever. Is this... About onsies?" She asks incredulously.
"It may very well be." The Officer answers in that steeled tone, reaches for his belongings - and retrieves a small booklet from underneath his navy coat. It spends a while in his fingers, flipped through and inspected so he can find the relevant page - a small series of scribbled notes that he certainly doesn't let her get a good look at them all, but he does uphold it to her now. A picture, customs - exactly that, of a few packages addresses to her, drawn and circled around the photo he stuck on his manual investigation keepsake. He doesn't seem to be interested in her wrenched hip, or her, for that matter, while he begins to flip to the next. This time, it isn't shown to her, inspsected with his eyes while he speaks. "I'm going to need you to come down to the station with us, where we'll finish the paperwork necessary to transfer you with an escort to Boston first, then to our department. This isn't anything extremely serious, yet, but it would be in your best interest to assist us by coming with me now so we can have a chat about why your order got caught with ophioids at the border." It wasn't cocaine, at least. His eyes do track up to hers, then, all narrow, serious and piercing. "Unless you've done something bad, in which case.." One of his hands separate from the notebook to land at his hip - push away his coat, and hold not a gun, but a his two-way radio.
Freya stares at the officer as he puts his hand on his radio and she just smiles as she spreads her hands out, "I didn't order any opiods officer. /And I think you should trust and believe in me/." She tells him as she catches his gaze, her teal eyes staring into his. "I truely only ordered that onsie for my roommate... I even have one myself of an arcanine. I didn't order any opiods you have the wrong person I'm afraid... So why don't you go and take the opiods out and have the onsie delivered so I don't have to risk the same thing happening when I order another onsie? International shipping is sooo hard you know." She pouts out her lower lip slightly at the officer, "I don't think anything else is necessary... You should just close this case as a shipper taking advantage of a poor girl in haven trying to make nice with her friends yeah?"
Something cracks, then, in the Officer's eyes. He's frozen stock still where he is, and the whole look of composure nestled in his gaze, in all of him, is gone. Slackjawed, and despite the stern knit of his brows, he looks on with an aura of total lack of brains. "You didn't order any opioids." He drawls after her, repeating each word. "You only ordered a onesie, and you even have an arcanine one for yourself." He's possibly not even aware of what he's spouting, but his hand drops, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand to get rid of that stupid drool. "Have a good day, ma'am." The words are bumbled out, and he turns to walk away from the store - back the way he came, except with a lot less spazz, mystery and cool cop attitude. Just a mindless revenant that possibly won't wake out of his daze for a few hours, if not more, until he's fought valiantly to drop charges on Freya and focus on the real target.