michael_elder (michael_elder) wrote in birchcreek, @ 2008-12-28 08:01:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | thread: michael elder |
December 28
WHO: Michael Elder
WHAT: Being tossed by the SART
WHERE: His apartment
WHEN: Sunday morning
WHY: Hunting for fugitives
RATING: G
STATUS: Complete and closed
Michael sat in his armchair, legs crossed, hands laced together on his stomach, his expression determedly mild as he watched the black-clad SART group work though his apartment. The black was a nice touch, as well as the whole armed-to-the-teeth look.
The tattoo between his shoulder blades shivered. Önska wanted out, but Michael wanted him to stay where he was, and a part of his mind repeated, Nej, nej, stanna där! to keep him in place. The SART people were mundanes and wouldn't see Önska, but still, he wanted no trace of magic around while they were there. He pressed back firmly against the chair, as if that would keep the raven from materializing.
Captain Hancock looked at him suspiciously. "Getting antsy? Something to hide, maybe?"
"Itchy back," Michael replied honestly. He winced as he heard something heavy hit the floor in the bedroom. "And what would I have to hide? My home was raided and the tools of my trades--both of them--were taken before I was even brought here. And as for these people you're looking for, I don't even know them. Never met them."
"I doubt you'd be surprised at the number of times we've heard that," Hancock said. He drifted across the room to Michael's desk. There were Latin and Greek texts open as well as his hand-written notes on the document he'd been working on. "What is this?"
"I translate documents for both museums and private collectors," Michael replied. "Latin, Greek, Aramaic."
Hancock flipped through them. "How do I know that these aren't 'magic spells?'" Hancock's voice made quotation marks around the last words, and Michael wanted to sigh.
"You don't. But they aren't. Mostly it's boring ship cargo manifests and insulting gossip about a Senator's choice of pleasure slaves or the ugliness of the Praetor's wife. Besides, do you think that if I did have anything left concerning magic, that I'd leave it in plain sight? I'm hardly stupid, Captain."
"Oh, I don't think you're stupid, Mr. Elder. Far from it. But what better place to hide things than in plain sight?"
Hancock closed the texts and then opened up Michael's laptop.
"Unless they're really, really skinny, I don't think they're hiding in my laptop," Michael said with some asperity. "Of course, what do I know? Can these people fold dimensions? Because that would be a really useful trick. And if you're looking for anything incriminating on my laptop? They wiped it while I was held in detention. There's nothing remaining even remotely concerned with magic."
"So you say. And I probably don't need to tell you how often I've heard that, now do I?"
Michael resigned himself to having his laptop, texts, and notes taken and held for gods knew how long. As long as they liked, he knew.
"Your warrants are for searching the premises for those three people. Nothing else, if I read correctly."
"I'm also empowered to take anything that I feel is of a suspicous nature for investigation and evaluation. If they prove to be of a harmless nature, well then, they'll be returned to you. In a timely manner."
"Yes, I've experienced your 'timely manner.' I'm still waiting on texts to be returned to me that were confiscated without just cause." Oh, you asshole, Michael thought, but kept his expression as neutral as possible. Hancock would be only too glad to take him in if he lost his temper and did something rash and stupid. "Captain Hancock, I have been cooperative and haven't made any attempts to hinder you in your search."
"Good. Remember that you're a self-admitted, convicted felon, and it would take only a hint of uncooperative or hostile behavior to haul you in."
Michael's chin lifted. "It is good to see a man who enjoys his work so much," he said, and while Hancock's mouth remained in a straight, humorless line, his eyes glittered.
One of the SART men came back in. "Everything's clear, sir," he said.
"Good. Take in the books and papers and laptop on Mr. Elder's desk for review."
The knuckles on Michael's still-folded hands whitened as he made them stay in place. It would do no good to protest, and the least hint of a physical response would get him tasered, restrained, and dragged away. He'd been tasered once, and he didn't care to repeat the incident.
The academic in him winced at the rough treatment of his texts as they were tossed, along with his notes and the photocopy of the original, into a collection bag. Luckily it was only a photocopy; he probably would've ended up writhing in agony on the floor because he wouldn't have kept silent for the mistreatment of a fragile, original document. The laptop was inconsequential, easily replaced.
"You'll hear from SART in a timely manner regarding the return of these materials if they prove to be legal. If not, you'll hear from us in person."
Slowly, Michael stood, careful to keep his hands in clear sight and to make his body language completely unthreatening. The latter was much harder to do than he expected, particularly with them watching him closely.
"As you can see, no fugitives here. I trust you're finished?"
"For the moment. I wouldn't be surprised if we returned on another sweep, Just to make sure, you understand."
Michael lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "As you feel necessary, Captain. You won't find anything different."
"Good morning, Mr. Elder," Hancock said, and then to his men, "All right, next door, then."
Michael stepped forward and closed the door as he heard them bang on Mrs. Acker's door. If it wouldn't get her into trouble, he almost hoped she took a frying pan to them. He wouldn't put it past her.
Önska fluttered to his shoulder, and Michael reached up to stroke fingers down his chest. Shaking his head, Michael turned to his desk to find his address book. Mr. Scofield needed to know that he wouldn't be receiving the translation on time or possibly ever.