THE DETECTIVE, PEACEKEEPER

“Discombobulate”
Hans Zimmer

AGE . Twenty-three and three quarters!
GENDER . Male!
DISTRICT . District One!
OCCUPATION . Consulting Detective! (The only one in the world, I might add)
SEXUALITY . Oh you're no fun!
TALKING . 21st Century
DOING . Sexy
DEEP THOUGHT . Raunchy
HEARING . 51st Cen Pheremones
IN HIS MIND PLACE . Horny


THE CASE OF THE MIRRORED HALL .

“WHO ARE YOU?”
I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job.

Flash.

There it is again, that dark figure flashing by in the mirror. Each glass panel simply manages to catch him in a quick moment, coat tails flickering in and out like navy blue birds. It's feral, the movement. As if the figure flashing by over and over is on the hunt. Feet hit the floor lightly as the figure across from myself runs onward. Onward and onward, but will he ever reach the destination? Is life not the hamster's wheel? It's an interesting thought, but more like something to think about later as my mind focuses on the number of steps that the man I am chasing has taken, and the number left to take before he reaches the far wall.

My stride is the length of a metre in metric terms. This would be due to my height, as I stand to be exactly six feet tall. Now, the man I chase I estimate to be shorter by two inches, therefore, I should overtake him before he reaches the warehouse wall. It gives me moments to think, something I am rather good at, but I prefer not to do too much of it while on the hunt. My eyes take in the site across from me, and all around me once again. I see everything. Though, my eyes are set kind of far into my face. The way my eyes flick all over the place, all blue, flecked with soft gold closer to the pupil. I am a mutation. Yet, I have not been tampered with in any way. It is simply because my brown eyed mother carried the gene with her dormant from her blue eyed father.

I note the mess of hair atop my head. Not out of hand, but in complete order either. So unlike my brother's gelled down head. the truth of the matter is, that I simply do not have the time on my hands to groom myself. Unlike all you boring people, I have things to do, and cases to solve. Body care comes second to that, or never at all. My mop of light brown hair that I love to run my hands through. It never grows past my ears however, I don't like how it tickles, and I usually reach up with a dagger and hack them off, rather impatiently, but still quite carefully. Oh come now, just because I don't have the time to groom myself, it does not mean that I don't care about what I look like. I'm not them, after all. Those districters.

At the thought of them, my lips curl up into a smile, showing the perfectly white and straight teeth underneath. Lines are already built from my fondness for exercising these muscles. They sit above a blockish chin, that leads up into high, sculpted cheek bones, and a wide forehead. I suppose one might compare it to the chocolate bars I ate as a child. Once, some chocolate had landed on my shoe, turning the black patent leather brown, and then almost red, like blood, with the drying of the mixture of salt, sugar, and cream. Stubble speckles my chin like a forgetful cousin that is trying to remember to go and become, but has forgotten how. When I remember to shave, my face is actually quite smooth, but is otherwise left in such a manner. If I still lived in the Capitol, it may seem improper, but here, I could wear a sack and still look better than most of the citizens.

I have a large nose, which does match the rest of my squashy like features. I smile often, because there are just so many things to laugh at, and to enjoy in this life. The man reflecting in the mirrors I run by looks determined, even as I can hear the labored breathing of the man I am in pursuit of. Doesn't work out then, possible lung disease discerned by the smell of nicotine wafting off of him. His yellow fingers match my own, only in the fact that they both know how to hold a cigarette, and have spent countless hours tapping the ashes off of the end of one in deep thought. My fingers however, match my gangly form, as in the fact that they are long and thin, and used to performing difficult tasks, such as plucking at violin strings, or dissecting the purpose of a rotting corpse found in the middle of a hall of mirrors. Oh do try and keep up, will you?

Each digit is carefully kept clean, along with the rest of my body. It's not that I don't like getting muddied, I have spent countless hours in dumpsters, sewers, and covered in blood, it's just the fact that there is already enough dirt here thank you. Each nail is kept cut short, and there is usually no dirt under the bed. From there, the hands move up into slender wrists that are stronger than they appear, and into carefully kept muscles. It's not that I work out, but its the countless hours I spend chasing ideas, and thoughts on the wind that do me in. Snatching at rumours spoken freely and softly by the homeless of District One tends to give a man a lot to do.

My shoulders are broad, and appear to be strong, but the physicality of my body quickly moves into a rather thin waist. Most likely due to the fact that I prefer to keep my body running with nicotine and don't always remember to eat. There is usually something much more interesting to do than simply sustain myself. Besides, digesting makes me think slower. I own one coat, because it is all I need. A simple tweed jacket with elbow patches. Elbow patches are cool. Then a simple navy scarf that my landlady, Mrs. Hudson of baker street on District one's main road carefully cut for me. Daft woman. The man in the mirror beside me tilts his head slightly to the side as he moves on, a long swan like neck reaching out, pulling him forward.

Most assuredly, the long graceful body pulls forward, reaches out, and grasps the fabric behind the neck of the caught prey. It was rather graceful, those last few moves that my reflection had taken. Shoulder blades had pushed backwards, and long legs had pulled forward, muscles and tendons working away as the fingers worked to grab the scruff of the prey's neck. Slamming the man against a mirror, I noticed the way the glass instantly shattered, breaking the small reflection of my face up into hundreds of shards, so I suddenly reflected everywhere. With it, the lights flickered and there was some confusion. With each light up, all I could see was myself, a look of neutrality adorning me. And when they finally lit up for good, the thing that I had been grasping was not a man at all, but the corpse of an odd looking little woman, blood seeping slowly out of a head wound. And there I stand, a god among the chaotic, as peacekeepers finally catch up with me, and rush around into the mirrored hall, tending to the dead body. My reflection calculates what it sees, and smiles softly at it's human counterpart, finding the moment to be far too delicious.

THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE CAT IN THE BAR .

“I'M NOT A PHYSCOPATH, ANDERSON.”
I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.

The body had been left behind the first bar, leaned neatly against the wall as if the person might simply be resting. The problem with that however, is that the said person had been leaning there for quite some time, as shown by the way the woman was still dripping wet, and it had rained at least four hours prior to the discovery of her body. She had been through hell, I knew that even before they removed her coat to reveal the deep gashes underneath. It was easy to see by the way there was dirt encrusted under her nails. Not to mention the fact that the collar of her jacket had been half popped, showing that there was a struggle, or the way mud had spattered onto her nylon stockinged ankles even though she wore flat shoes.

I have seen this before. The long gashes resemble those from an old case file that was closed seven years ago, mostly because I was not here to smack people on the back of the head and tell them that they were stupid. The marks were obviously left by a short, spring loaded blade. I would think about three to four and a quarter inches in length, judging by the tears made in the skin, if it weren't for the fact that the weapon of choice was so obviously a knitting needle. My thoughts on the weapon of choice were reinstated with the dumping of the second and third body this time around. The holes in the flesh a perfect synchronization to the diameter of my grandmother's needles. They used to fill up the house with such loud clicking sounds that were almost oddly comforting. The night calls like a sweet lady around us, as we examine this new body, the sounds of the bar can be heard even through the wall. It makes me ant a cigarette, so I light one, taking out my silver lighter inlaid with my family crest, and breath in the ugly, yet solidifying smell of smoke.

Mostly I follow my instincts, so I don't know why I hear a surprised shout coming from one of the officers I work with, asking me where I am going. Not only is it incredibly laughable that he thinks I would bother wasting my breath on telling him, but I don't know myself. Presumably into the bar, by the way my feet are moving to the door and then in. Tricky little things they are, but a real delight when I'm looking for a good time, they always seem to know where I want to go with those minds of their own. I shout back a reply of something, because my mouth has a snarky response waiting as usual, "Away from you Anderson, you're putting me off." My hands comply with a vague waving behind me as well. They're nice little hands, they like to help when they can, and I enjoy them for it.

My mind drifts onto the subject of the oddity of what a human body really is, all muscles and sinews working together with bones and skin to move a body about like a marionette doll. I love them, I really do. They have a certain spectacularness to them, as if when they were evolving they made things up as they went along. I'm rather good at that, making things up as I go, I call them things. I'm good at most things, you'll notice that as you follow me around, how inadequate I can make a person feel by being far too adequate. But the human body, right, amazing things. That's another one of my favourite things about this job, dissecting the body. It's like taking apart a puzzle, and you have to be very careful too. May not look like it, but oh, I'm jolly good at being careful.

I say as I walk into a bar full of Districters, with my usual air of being better than everyone, and the lovely clothing of a Capitolite. Can't blame a guy for wanting to look good, can you? No matter though. I'm excellent at blending in. Slipping back into the outside world, I walk down the street a bit, and take a hat from it's place on the sidewalk, loosen my bowtie, and ruffle my hair a bit. When I reenter the bar, I'm slouching, face turned downwards, the usual stance of the District, wherever this District is. I can't remember if this is One or Three. They all seem the same to me. A quick glance tells me One, a career district. They're all toughies here, and are doing well in the games, should be in a good mood then. The small television bolted into the corner in fact is showing the games right now, or at least a recap. Two young ladies fighting, one of them frightfully naked. I don't avert my eyes. A female's body has never interested me. But then again, neither has a male's. It's a Capitolite's right to watch the games, to watch the Districters suffer. They've never told us why that is though. And I won't accept that it's simply because apparently we beat them.

No one deserves the right to make others suffer. For all my pride in looking excellent always, and for making fun of the Districters, one can't become a Peacekeeper and lie. Maybe the ones that come from the Districts don't understand, they haven't seen the difference. But no matter what anyone says, watching two young ladies, no older than eighteen fight for their lives on television isn't a pleasurable thing to watch unless you're a complete idiot. Honestly, I've been diagnosed as a sociopath, and I know this. Not that I'd ever do anything about it. I'm not afraid to, and even though it is a small annoyance, it creates fun people that do fun things that I can then catch them and avox them for. Asking me to do something about it would be like asking me to throw out all my toys. I don't know if you would like me when I'm bored. Best idea is to keep me happy.

Would I kill a man myself though? Short answer is yes. I have done so before, and will again and again, I know that to be true. I do not gain pleasure from it, but nor does it bother me to stick a knife into a beating heart, or to shoot someone point blank. It's what you have to be to keep the peace. Some men and women start off believing they would never just kill a person. That's funny because I became a peacekeeper with the intent to shoot, maim, and save. Weird intentions, I am aware, but every person has his or her own sense of adventure. Really, do you leave for an adventure, hoping it will go safe and sound? You do? Boring. You must be related to Anderson

Smiling, I rap my knuckles on the wooden bar, and call out, "One pina colada my good sir, hold the alcohol, and do not forget the umbrella, I like the straw." I spin onto a stool, smiling at the room around me. Everyone is staring at me like I'm an unwanted piece of glitter that won't unstick to their hands. Except for one lady, staring out the window instead. Lovely. I slip off the stool and slide into the booth seat across from her. She looks to be about thirty, but the lines on her face say otherwise. She's had a life of hardship, as if someone had painted them on, the lines on her face only point to frowning. Her hand was clutched around a glass of water, and her feet was tapping out a continuous beat against the old wooden flooring. Steepling my fingers into a point, I rest my chin against them, staring intently at the woman.

My voice is slightly muted as I ask her, "Do you like to knit?" Yet, it still startles her, and she turns from looking out the window, the glass slipping from between her fingers. I catch it just before it hits the table, taking a moment to rest it down softly on the rippled plastic. As I place it down, I smell it, most definitely water. A small grin of pleasure spreads itself across my face as easily as the light from an old yellow street lamp spreads across our table. I don't think you know how much I adore being correct. Which is excellent because I think the last time I have been completely wrong was quite some time ago, I'm usually spot on. The woman across from me has not been drinking spirits, yet she looks rather confused. As a response to my question, she asks one in return.

"Have you seen my cat?"

In fact, I have not, and would have noticed one if it were here, or had been around the crime scene. But the shaky way in which the woman jitters and moves reminds a bit of my grandmother after she was diagnosed with dementia. I could have told all of them what she had easily, in fact I did so, numerous times, but mother would only spit and yell that I was a horrible, spiteful little boy and cry. Really, she was a stupid old bat, so we got along fine, she and me. I know how to talk to people with dementia, am practiced at it. The same way I talk to anyone normally does just fine. I settle forward, staring intently at the woman until she averts her eyes, dancing all around the room, anywhere but me. So I take her face into my hands and stare intently.

"Did you murder anyone recently? What's in your bag? Knitting needles, may I see them?"

She pulls away slowly from me, recoiling in slow motion like a snake. If that's what snakes do, it must be what they do. Or are they fast? It doesn't matter, but I wonder sometimes, sometimes my wondering gets more like wandering. She takes out knitting needles, all bloodstained and rusty. But the way she holds them, all clenched up in her fist makes it look like she doesn't even notice the blood. Whimpering almost, she asks again, "Have you seen my Cat? He's been a very naughty boy....." And as I sit there holding her face in my hands, my mind begins clicking away in that delightful way that it does. And sitting there, half bent over, and my face inches away from an insane lady's, I slip far too easily into my mind place, thoughts flying about like physical things in the air.

This woman was older, she would have been alive when the first attacks were, in fact, judging by the blood on the needles, and the thickness that matched those of the wounds, she might have been the one who did it. But, judging by her mental health, she could not have gotten away with it for so many years, seeing as she might have spoken of it to anyone. But, people could have noticed her mental state and simply ignored her ramblings. So she could be the killer. But looking into her eyes is only like looking into light, and there are no bloodstains on her clothes. This cat could not be an animal, and might actually be a person, whether that be a son or a husband. Seeing as she appeared to be thirty, her son would just be young seven years ago when the attacks broke out. Therefore, this Cat is a friend or a lover, but decidedly male as she regarded him as a 'naughty boy'. She was expecting this 'cat' to be in the bar, but he has not turned up yet. Or he has, and left, framing the mad woman with the knitting needles.

Experimentally, I stick a finger out, dragging it across the needle even as the woman tries to pull them out of my reach. Sticking my finger in my mouth, I notice that the blood tastes stale.

Different needles then. Means he is supposed to be coming back, but what if he doesn't because of the milling peacekeepers outside? No, a man who tells a mad woman to sit in a bar and wait for him is most assuredly coming back. Although, come to think of it, I have done the same and left the woman in the bar. But I'm the madman, not the woman in those circumstances. Where were we? Right, a man who has bothered to care for this mad woman for so long would not leave her waiting. Unless of course, he knew that I would go looking in this bar for witnesses or something of the like, and happen across a mad woman with bloody knitting needles. then she could be used as a distraction couldn't she? While the madman.....while the madman did what?

The woman's eyes flick to behind me, and her face lights up in joy as she exclaims, "There you are!" at the same time, a pina colada with no umbrella lands on the table behind me, and I find myself inching into darkness when something rather heavier than a cat hits me in the back of the head, sending my lights out, and the world spinning away. Should have known it was the bar keep, it's always the barkeep. Well, not always, but often. Well, not often, but sometimes.

Perchance to dream, perchance to sleep; Aye, there's the rub, for in that sleep of death what dreams may come. You're not dead, you idiot, you've been knocked out, get a hold of yourself. Oh no, really? I hate that, when that happens, I always wake up with a terrible buzzing sound in my head and then I'm usually in a horrible situation. Be quiet, we're going to dream for a bit.

THE CASE OF THE MAN IN THE MOONLIGHT .

“HOW OFTEN HAVE I SAID TO YOU”
when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains,
however improbable, must be the truth.

"You were such an odd little boy..."

I roll my head up to look at my captor, and a cheshire of a grin climbs up my face. My arms and legs are bound, and my head hurts, with that ridiculous buzzing sound that always appears after being knocked out. I'm slightly disheveled, my hair sticking up and out, and the shirt that was freshly pressed this morning rumpled. Oh but I don't mind. This case has proved to be very interesting, and by that I mean not boring. Besides, it wouldn't take Houdini to work his way out of these stupidly easy knots. For the time being I'm rather comfortable. Now it's what I like to call 'tea time' where the crazy man shows off, and this mad man listens.

"And what, pray tell, would you know about that?"

I love it when they do this, when they try to analyze me. Me, The Detective. As if they could even have a small notion of what goes on inside this head. It tickles me, and it entertains. The lovely problematic thing about being me is that no one can know anything about me, or what I am like. It is like i am a god among men, those primates that scramble around in the dirt, while I watch from above, laughing because I already know that no matter what they try, they will fail. It would almost be sad, if it wasn't so funny. I wonder if they know that makes them the psychotic ones, doing the same thing s over and over. But see, I wouldn't know because I don't fail. I just do a 'thing', and the thing usually turns out.

"You were born to government worker, who go by the names of The Maker, and The Mistress. You have an older brother by three years who also works in the government. Your family is very well off, and it is believed that your parents are very big supporters and close friends wit-"

"Yes, yes," I interrupt, impatience filling me along with an inkling of unease. I've worked hard to keep my past in the past, and I don't like that this man knows so much. How he can is odd, seeing as I have never shared it with anyone. Even my name has remained a secret. What, you don't actually believe that my name is The Detective? Gullible little thing, aren't you. But I've gone by it for so long now that I most likely wouldn't even turn my head if someone called me by my actual name. Cocking my head to the side, I narrow my eyes, and press on, "How do you know these things, who have you been talking to?"

"Close friends with the President, himself. You went to school a year too early, and were moved up to high school when you were only ten, entering college when you were at the age of thirteen. When you were young, your brother would pick on you because you were too smart and so you bro-"

I yawn hugely, kicking my legs out together in one movement, seeing as they are tied up. Too easily, I swing my arms over my head so that my bound hands rest folded in my lap. It would be lying to say that this wasn't making me uneasy. Not that I'm ashamed of my past. The fact that I broke my brother's arm never bothered me much either. He was asking for it. Honestly, it wasn't even my fault, although I did take the blame for it. All I did was fail to tell him that if he moved his body a certain way when I was pressing his arm like that, it would literally break. "I repeat, who are you?

"You broke his arm. After graduating from college, you were placed in a government position, thought to be in the special forces of the Capitol. I distinctly remember you saying that you enjoyed your work when you arrived home one evening, which made your later defection so odd."

I worked with a group of people with a lower intelligence than I, but the need to boss me around anyway because I was young and fresh. They cost us many a case when I worked there, people could have been saved, things could have been so much better if I had lead the team. But because of a total idiot of a boss, so many people died, lost their lives. "I was bored with it," I mutter, hitting my foot petulantly on the concrete flooring. If he knows me so well, maybe he knows this is a lie. Not entirely a lie. Well, close to not entirely. Well, actually, it's not a lie at all. Watching everyone die got boring fast, I like catching he people that do bad things, not watch them go on a murder spree.

"You ended up quitting with no notice, and then signed up to become a Peacekeeper. When you were assigned to a District, you began to wander without permittance, until you were made to stay in District One. You still take up the odd case in other districts as well. You live at 221b Baker street, and are living in a flat owned by a Mrs. Hudson. Since your arrival, crime has gone down in large decreases, resulting in a happier District, and an influx of avoxes."

"Yes, yes, I'm spectacular, I understand." A crazy fan then. I finish working at the ropes around my hands, feeling them loos on my wrists. I could just slip my hands out right now and be done with it. But his back is turned to me, so I carefully work out the knots on my ankles as well. I don't know how he knows these things about me, nor do I care. I just want him to stop saying words in case someone is listening in. I don't know what this man thinks he has achieved, or why he is telling me things I already know. But he has also forgotten many things about my past that make me who I am. He has forgotten everything I have seen and done, the details that make up a history are sometimes more important than the actual event.

Memories of my history include a big house with so many floors and rooms a person could find themselves lost in there. Sometimes it would be filled with the sound of needles clicking together, Grandmother making another stupid sweater for me maybe. Or the fact that the place I hated to be most was my father's study. how it always smelled f nicotine and leather, and how he'd sit behind his big old desk and stare at me. What a disappointment I was to him. Every time I did anything wrong, there was the belt removed from his waistline and slapped across my back. And the other kids would tease me, how I'd never play with them. I was too busy studying so that I wouldn't have to hear that belt fly through the air again and hit my back so hard that I thought I'd never breath again.

Then there was mother. She always thought I was such a terror of a boy, always annoying my dear brother, and being too smart for my own good. She'd only be angry with me when I would walk into the room and wrinkle my nose, the tell tale signs of another man lingeing on my mother so easily it was almost a joke. How her skin smelled like cologne, not my father's, and the way her hair would be slightly ruffled after 'meeting with friends'. Her dress would be rumpled, and she'd always have a white rose in her purse. I think she was mainly disappointed in the fact that I wasn't an idiot. She'd tell me that I was too smart for my own good. Then she'd take the belt from my father's drawer, and I'd hear it whistle down through the air and smack me on the back, again and again and again.

Honestly, what's a kid supposed to do with mixed messages, not really my fault I don't know how to interact properly with people.

"Then there is your real name. Now, this took some digging, you really didn't want this found out. But still, it was no match for me, because I-"

"Oh you're playing with fire now, sir," rubbing at where the ropes had been on my body, I stand and cross to where the man is standing, now directly behind him. The only people that live and know my name are my family, and if I had my way, they wouldn't be quite so alive. Preferably more dead, I've always liked them best while they were sleeping. I bet you might be thinking, 'oh, but how about brother dear, come now, there must have been a bond over terrible parents?' no wonder I compared you to Anderson, you are a complete idiot. Now do you want to stay, or shall I just give you some wooden blocks and put you in the playpen with Anderson?

My brother could do no wrong. He didn't try to exceed anywhere, nor did he stick his nose anywhere. Honestly, it's only because he didn't see it. but that's not to say that he wasn't brilliant. Because it would be stupid to tell you that he is an idiot. No, he is smart, but with numbers and figures. And when I say numbers and figures, I mean people and what to do with them. He is a craftsman at how to deal with people, something I could never really figure out. But what he never did, was deal with me. He did nothing about my mother and father. He would come home to find me beaten with the belt, and would simply tell me that I brought it on myself. He was no big brother. I counted him as one of them, the enemy.

No one could be trusted, so I trusted no one. The only reason I'd talk to my batty old grandmother was because she was batty and didn't know that apparently I was undesirable and a terrible son. It's a pity that she died, maybe if she had lived I wouldn't have felt the need to kill. With her death when I turned fifteen, I stopped having anyone that I could talk to without knowing that a belt was coming soon after, or the jeering of an unfaithful brother who had left me to the dogs. So I threw myself into my job, and changed my name. I would no longer be known as- nice try, but no. I changed my name to The Detective. Ironic really, using my mother's and father's style.

I learned how to fight, how to use my strength against others, and most importantly how to kill. I tested that out on a man I caught holding a knife to his girlfriend's throat. It's odd because apparently you're supposed to shake and feel terrible after killing someone. I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. That's why it isn't difficult for me to reach out now, in the moonlit window of this building, and place my hands on the man's head. "You were saying?"

"YOUR REAL NAME IS -"

"YES, JAMMY DODGERS ARE MY FAVOURITE TREAT, HOW DID YOU KNOW," I call out, quietly breaking his neck.

I think that is suitable encouragement to not try and learn my name. I suppose I should be wondering how he knew so much about me. But that's a perk of being a diagnosed sociopath. One doesn't have to know, or care. Lovely.And to think, now you know so very much about me. If he had said my name, I might have to kill you as well. That would be a pity, it's lovely having someone to talk to.

ANYTHING ELSE ?

The song used for muse whilst making me: Some nights Intro - Fun.

OUT OF CHARACTER .

FACE CLAIM .

MATT SMITH • THE DETECTIVE

OTHER CHARACTERS ?

Oh, that's right, I have this.

I, ELEGANT .

CODEWORD . odair