Logs:Unwarranted

Unwarranted
cn: some cops copping about, some misgendering
Dramatis Personae Shane, Spencer
In Absentia	2020-08-27 "Do you expect me to believe there's two blue fucking shark muties in town?"
Location <PRV> VL 303 {Lighthaus} - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows (their sills and window-boxes alive with a bounty of herbs) providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. The living room and kitchen both hold a rather inordinate number of lamps in addition to the ceiling lights; standing lamps, small lamps on each counter, large sunlights in the corner. More often than not, they're largely all turned on, too. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. It's early yet, and Spence is still in his pajamas (ice blue, covered with unseasonable white snowflakes, and already looking too short at the wrists and ankles), looking kind of pale and sick. At least he's gotten out of bed, even if it's only to build himself and the Hollands' one-eyed beagle Obie a blanket nest on the couch. His breakfast, cream of wheat topped with banana slices and too much maple syrup, has been cooling untouched on the coffee table. He has a tablet in his lap running Minecraft, but he's only tapping at it in desultory fashion. As they approach the door of the apartment, Macnair glances over at his partner, frowning. "It's just one tiny mutie, Trutch. Don't shit yourself." His own hand is lingering near his belt, though, hovering near the holster. There is a bead of sweat trickling down from his forehead, pressing a sad red curl to his skin from under his hat. Another look at Trutch - "Fine, I'll do it," - and he pounds on the door, throwing most of his weight behind it. "NYPD!" he yells, his voice affected with some undeserved machismo. "Open up!" Spencer starts at the pounding on the door. Obie, ever helpful watchdog that he is, only now alerts him, baying out one long 'woooo' as he clambers off the couch and run-slip-stumble-slides into the front door, tail wagging eagerly. Spence groans and starts to struggle out of the blankets, but finally just teleports himself to the front door, one blanket falling to the floor and the other remaining draped around his shoulders. "No thanks, Officer," he chirps, taking full advange of his still-boyish voice. Stoops to pick up Obie, who...hasn't stopped baying, just to keep him from running repeatedly into the door. "I'm not s'posed to let strangers in. If you have a warrant you can slide it under the door. Thank you!" Somewhere during this chirping and baying one of the bedroom doors opens. Shane is only half-dressed, lavender and white trousers with intricate detailing at the cuffs; he's still buttoning them up as he skids down the hall. 'Again?' mouthed to Spencer, his gills fluttering. "Wanna put that dumbass in the bedroom?" Quietly, with a flick of claws to Obie. To the closed door, one huge black eye squinting up at the peephole, "-- y'all got a warrant?" "There's a kid?" Trutch asks, his voice low. Macnair swears under his breath. "Just put the fucking warrant under the door." Louder now, he addresses the people inside. "We've got a warrant. The sooner you let us in the easier this will be." There is a dangerous edge to his tone. Trutch yelps as he slides the paper underneath the door - there is a bead of blood froma paper cut. Macnair rolls his eyes before continuing. "There are officers around the building." Spence rolls his eyes very dramatically in answer to his brother's question. At the suggestion he nods, swaddling the beagle with the trailing edge of his blanket as he vanishes -- -- and reappears a few moments later, sans blanket and with his phone in hand. Obie can still be heard distantly baying from behind a door somewhere in the apartment. "Is it legit?" He whispers, kind of loudly, as he peers at the warrant with all the skepticism that is the birthright of a thirteen-year-old. Shane is looking over the warrant with narrowed eyes. Both sets of his gills are fluttering faster, his mouth setting into a thin line. "Looks like," is quieter muttered to his brother -- he's stepping back away from the door. Gently nudging Spencer back, too, further into the living room. To the door, all he says is: "They're not here. They don't even live here. Good luck, though." Unseen by the two inside, Macnair's face tightens. "If he isn't here, then there shouldn't be any problems if we search the place." He tries, unsuccessfully, to keep his tone light. Trutch and Macnair exchange a glance, and Trutch moves into position, back to the door. His boots are heavy on the floor outside. "Last chance. Open up." His fingers curl around the pistol at his belt. Spencer's eyes have gone wide-wide, darting between his brother and the door. He does back away as prompted, but looks very dubious about it. Dubious or no, he's started recording on his phone. "They're not a 'he', and you don't have a warrant to search this house." Despite this bravado, his voice is cracking in his nervousness. "I know the difference between an arrest warrant and a search warrant, man. She isn't here. It's been years since she lived here." The fluttering of Shane's gills has quieted. He sets the warrant down on the back of the sofa. Sets himself squarely in front of Spence, much though he may provide inadequate cover being -- at this point significantly smaller than his younger brother. He clearly doesn't think this (entirely honest!) statement is going to give the police much pause for deciding they have Probable Cause for searching her father's house regardless -- he's quite clearly braced even before the door gets kicked in. Macnair pulls his gun from his holster, safety off. "Do it." The words have hardly left Macnair's mouth when Trutch kicks back, forcing the door open with a violent smash. Macnair shoves the door all the way open, his partner right behind them, both of them clutching their pistols. "Hands in the air!" Macnair roars, pointing the gun directly at the blue mutant in front of him. "Both of you!" Trutch moves to Shane cautiously, one hand moving to the cuffs on his belt. Macnair smirks. "Not here, my ass." It's all the affirmation Trutch needs to move all the way to Shane and start going through the motions of arrest. Despite all his bracing, Spence flinches when the door flies open and he takes another step back. He raises his hands without any argument now that the cops are inside the house with their weapons drawn. His eyes are still huge, and they skate rapidly between the officers. "Wait, what did he do?" he sputters. "He's not -- that's not who the warrant is for!" Shane's eyes open huge and wide, enormous black pools that dominate most of his narrow face, locked on the gun in Macnair's hands. His webbed hands lift, although his muscles are tensed as the cop approaches. "The fuck? That's not me. Aren't you supposed to make sure you have the person on the fucking warrant? -- Spence, get in touch with Pa once these --" His jaw tightens, "-- once they're out of here." His gills have set to fluttering again, his jaw tight. "You not even gonna let me get dressed?" Macnair's hands are steady - the gun remains trained on Shane's head. "Do you expect me to believe there's two blue fucking shark muties in town?" He jerks his head - Trutch pulls Shane's arms down, moving them behind his back. "Tell it to a goddamn judge." He considers the question a moment, then his mouth curls up in a cruel smile. "We got shirts at the station." His eyes flick to the human looking kid behind Shane - "If you're picky, maybe the kid can bring you something there." "Ok I will," Spencer replies tightly, blinking a lot all of a sudden. "I'll tell him." He looks at Macnair sharply, though he doe not move from his spot, hands still raised high, phone still clutched in one hand and recording. "There are," he insists. "They're twins." He does not wilt under the cop's unkind gaze. "Not that you're gonna believe us anyway." "Don't really expect you clowns to do any thinking, no. The fuck kind of country would we be if you had to know like -- a single fact about the shit you're enforcing?" Shane offers no resistance to this, his hands balling up as they move behind his back. "Oh! And go stay with Ryan, okay? Might be a while." Macnair snorts. "Twins. Sure." He doesn't react to Shane's goading beyond a narrowing of the eyes and a glance toward Spencer's phone - but Trutch does, fastening the cuffs tight as he can on the blue wrists. Macnair raises the gun briefly toward to Spencer, but changes his mind and motions to Trutch to shove Shane out the door. As they move, Macnair gives the coffee table a shove with one boot, the glass shaking a bit as he does so. "Nice place." The sneer is twists his face into something nastier than before. "Let's go."