Jude Saint-Destrier, D10 {fin}

outrage
that's it i'm going on a rampage
don't waste my time with any context
i'm gonna ruin all your prospects
i'm gonna pick all your pockets

"Apparently, Sawyer isn't long out of the Detention Centre. Four years or something, I don't remember the details of the sentence exactly, but it was quite a famous case at the time." The Bartender cleans the foam from the inside of half-drank pints as he recalls what he can remember from four years ago.

"Oh. Because it was unusual?" I ask, my ball-point pen poised over a blank page of my leather-bound notebook. I gaze up for a response, and the man shrugs, at a loss for words it seems.

"Well, sure. Not many kids that young end up killing folk." He laughs awkwardly, but then masks it with a cough, realising that it's perhaps inappropriate to do so. I scribble down what little he's told me so far, the blue ink smudging as my left hand follows the trail my pen creates.

"I think it was an abusive father, it usually is something like that sets a boy down the wrong path in life." He tuts as he tries to recall more detail, pausing for a few moments before sucking his teeth and shaking his head in defeat.

"Peacekeeper was in here not too long ago, was telling Susan how the boy was back on the streets and she should watch herself." He slaps his cloth down on the bar to dry and sets about rotating the stock in his dimly-lit refrigerator, "Seems if he's a danger to people then it should be in that there paper you work for, so I've got no qualm in tellin' you that much."

He has been generous with what he has given me so far, and it's come from a good place too. Rightly so, if there is a murderer back on the streets then the fine people of District 10 deserve to know the details. Clay Sawyer may have done his time in the Detention Centre, a young boy aged 14 needed rehabilitation, but that doesn't mean by any stretch of the imagination that he is any less of a threat.

I raise my head from my notepad and wiggle my pen in the air, keen to stop him before he moves on too quickly.

"Susan?" I enquire.

"Oh yeah, Mrs. Novis. She lived next door to Sawyer, was the one who reported the crime to the Pee-kays." I assume Pee-kay is his abbreviation for Peacekeeper, my shorthand isn't too dissimilar, a scratchy "P.K." with an arrow stemming from Susan Novis' name. Of course the Peacekeepers turned up, and Clay Sawyer killed one of them in his escape, that much is already publicly documented.

"And she still lives in the same place, other side of the ridge?" I would have assumed something that traumatic would have given the poor old woman reason enough to up-sticks and move, but not everyone had the money nor the willpower to do so.

"Naw, she's canned up in one of those two-stories." He says, meaning the newer buildings that have a store, bakery, or butchery at ground level, and a small one-bedroom house-sit above it.

"Do you know where?" I relax my slender shoulders a little as he scribbles down directions on a napkin with an old pen, and hands it over. I thank him for his time and grab my rucksack.

"Take care of yourself, kid." He smiles as I leave, and I give a polite wave in return.

I turn the corner and bin the dummy notepad, taking out the napkin to read the address that he gave over so willingly. Everyone wants to help when they think they're doing a good thing. A reporter is always an easy ruse. Luckily for me the old lady's place is not too far from here. I'll give her the same routine so that I can get Sawyer's address. After that I'll head home and clean myself up - I still have blood on my knuckles from earlier, and my dirty blonde hair is dusty and in need of a wash. The cats need feeding too, Ripred I forgot about them. I've got time. Killing the bastard who murdered my brother is going to take a few days to plan, at least.

fury
i am the judge and I'm the jury
it's dog eat dog and I'm a pure breed
i'll work you up into a frenzy
but god this baggage is heavy