Prologue. Not sure when I'll get around to the next chapter, got a lot on at the moment. The rating might change in later chapters.
Disclaimer: Likely not going to repeat myself, so listen up. I don't any charaters on here you recognise from the tv series, however the plot is mine and so are any OCs that pop up.
The Dying Cricket
"Why?" It was a question asked so many times sometimes he feared it might have lost all meaning. The fundamental question of morality. What made that line between good and evil stand so clear in a human's mind. The human race didn't blip out of nowhere with a written record of what laws to abide by, judge, jury and officers standing by poised to enforce them at a moments notice. There had to be something hardwired, already there ready to guide you through life, show you right from wrong like a neuron map of jiminy cricket hidden beneath your skull.
To comfort a frightened infant, help an elderly woman cross the street, summon help when witnessing a car wreck. To allow a child to cry in pain, take out hate on those unable to fight back, commit murder. Where does a moral compass draw the line? Worse, what makes anyone cross that line into the dark depths fuelled by hate and greed. Is it merely a broken compass? A single write off human who is evil, nothing more but a flesh exoskeleton with a shattered cricket inside. Or is it something deeper, more frightening, the witnessing of what could have been and what might still become. Is evil a category distinct unto itself or a covered slippery slope you can't help but tumble down after that first fateful step?
"Because I wanted to, that's why" the suspect grins confirming his change in status from suspect to perp. Eyes shine wide and manic as he sniggers, hands fisting together on the interview table as if attempting to cling to the moment, savouring its putrid flavour. He's not an astounding looking man, average height, average weight, average looks. Certainly not much to motivate a second glance if you passed him on the street and not the usual burley male with too many tattoos and as little hair on his head as brains inside his skull that usually sprang into the everyday citizen's mind upon hearing the word 'criminal'.
Froth gathers in the corner of the man's yellow tinged mouth, matching the unique shade of his finger nails. An advert against smoking if there ever was one, though from the rather unattractive bloodshot eyes and the way he'd started sweating long before the hard questions it was unlikely to be the only drug he was using. What he doesn't realise is that he's not as formative as he thinks he is.
Guys like him came and went from the packed station house a good few dozen times a week. Hell, they were the reason the place is always packed to begin with. Not all were questioned on such abhorrent crimes of course, and not all were so loathsomely proud of what they'd done or for that matter could even remember the crime on which they were being questioned. But they'd all got there the same way, washed down a slippery slope with drugs and alcohol and no thought to reaching out a hand to stop themselves falling.
The detective sits unimpressed on the opposite side of the too often used table, drawing some peace of mind from the fact that while the waste of space may be laughing now, things were doubtful to be so humorous where he was going. Hard to laugh when your doing twenty-five to life behind bars.
"Can it chuckles and start giving me some real answers! Why kill the tourist?"
It was rare in this line of work to find someone who was somewhat courteous to talk to. He understands that. Colourful personalities some might say, others the more apt description in his opinion of down right scumbags. Just once however he wants to have a pleasant, respectful conversation with someone before locking them up. Just once would be nice.
"Cause it was fun" the man confesses displaying all his off colour teeth in a too wide smile. "Sides, it was only a tourist. Deserved to get stuck wearing that stupid get up anyhow. Wandering around the streets like he fucking owned the place."
The criminal leans in as if attempting to share a secret, but only manages to share the nauseating stench infesting his wheezing breath before he's pushed by the scrawny shoulders back into his chair by the uniformed cop behind him. Thank god for safety regulations. While this guy was clearly one of those criminals under the mistaken and sickening notion that killing someone was something to add a notch to his belt, a status symbol of sorts, he failed to realise that the only thing currently setting him apart wildly enough from the human race to raise eyebrows was a concerning lack of personal hygiene.
"You grew up here!" he yells instead attempting to ignore the verbal and physical orders to sit his ass back down. "I can tell by the accent, you know what its like. Seeing those no brained idiots walk around taking pictures of our city with their jaws down to their knees. He deserved what he got. Didn't even notice what I'd done at first. Kept looking from me to the knife as surprised as when he was ogling all those fucking buildings-"
"Hey, hey" The detective stands slamming his palms down hard on the metal table in a effort to shut him up. It works thank god and he's staring down the murderer. The thin faced man in his early thirties, mousy with that unwanted extra kick of bad sanitation, looking for the most part like an average working man though perhaps after spending a week or two locked somewhere with no shower, except for a single ring through his nose covered in almost as much grease as his slicked brown hair.
The well built cop stands his ground, holding his hands vice like on his bony shoulders keeping the unassuming man controlled and showing his dedication to his job like no other. There was no guessing the last time that jacket had been washed and the detective didn't want to know what could be hiding in that drooping mat of hair slithering across the officer's hands. He makes a mental note to invite the poor cop for a pizza sometime with the rest of the guys. Though a tad on the pink frilly side of life for his tastes, the word 'ewwwww' had rarely seemed more appropriate.
"The only idiot I see here is you. Take him outta my sight" he nods to the officer, signalling the end of the interview, the end of the case and the end of another life that never should have been taken away.
The sleaze ball was shouting again as soon as he's dragged from his seat, scraping the chair across the floor with him. Asking him even as he was forced, handcuffed kicking and screaming down the hall for some kind of agreement. Some kind of verification that he should have killed a husband, a loving father of two children just because his behaviour was different enough from his own to piss him off a little. Some kind of absolution.
No matter how proud they could be when faced with the evidence of their crimes, Detective Donald Flack got some consolidation from the fact that even before leaving his interview room ninety-nine percent of those cold proud killers would ask for some kind of confirmation or forgiveness. To him it showed that there was hope for a human race with crickets in their heads, chirping out right from wrong. That even when things got a little dizzy from drugs, alcohol, rage or passion, little old Jiminy Cricket could still sober up and say 'listen here, I think you've made a bit of a bungle out of this one'.
On another more terrifying level it made him worry. If people could commit crimes like assault, murder, rape with a cricket in their head what was there to stop a person with a healthy cricket going down the same path? If people were born with working crickets, then how did a murderer become a murderer, why did a struggling man turn to a life of crime and what held a good man to ignore the temptations and keep up that struggle?
How much hardship did it take before that voice in the back of your head became ignored or distorted beyond recognition? Worse, would you be able to realise it had even happened before it was too late and you were locked up for what you were, another criminal with a heartbroken cricket.
