Kernel_995

Awkward Meetups and Teenage Delinquents

Do you know, dear reader; what is worse than being woken up at five, being told that America will possibly implode by the end of the week, and then being dragged to the other end of the country to grill a possible terrorist?

Being woken up at five, being told that America will possibly implode by the end of the week, being dragged to the other end of the country to grill a possible terrorist and then meeting your ex.

Yes, Clara Reynolds and I dated for a while. It was fun while it lasted, fun enough for me to put aside my undying hatred towards the DoE, but we both felt our careers came first and we decided to amicably end things.

No, I did not mind being with her in a professional capacity; we were both mature adults who knew how to keep our work life and personal life separate.

It's just that after our break up we didn't get to talk much, and by not much I mean never. But such was the nature of our jobs; we would keep getting transferred to one place and the other, sometimes in the country, sometimes not. Although, I confess, in the midst of all that there were opportunities for us to meet which I may have avoided on purpose.

Learn from my mistake. If you break things off with your girlfriend, talk things through. Come to a conclusion on where the both of you now stand. I know the conversation can be hard, and incredibly awkward, but believe me, you do not want to save that talk for when Doomsday is upon you.

"Angus sharing information with other agencies? Maybe the end times really are upon us", I quipped back, desperate for an icebreaker. Any icebreaker.

Nobody laughed, so I carried on.

"Danny Gutierrez, last man known to possess the Doomsday Disposing Device is right behind that door. I think we all know about the capabilities of this device and the gravity of the matter. Now, what do we have on him?"

"Nothing.", said Clara. "Except that he's being held for possession of about 20 grams of marijuana with intent to distribute, and I've been got a fax from some lawyer telling us there'll be hell to pay if we ralk to him without her present."

"What the hell, ignore it, I'm gonna go in and make that bastard crack."

"Says who?"

A young woman in her twenties showed up, clearly out of breath from all the running she had done.

She was, to put it mildly, a mess.

Large mascara smears over her eyes that tried to unsuccessfully hide the bags under her eyes looked more like war paint. It was an apt analogy, because she looked like someone who had just escaped a warzone.

Her bed hair was messily tied up into what resembled a bun, she wore a t-shirt featuring some band I'd never heard of, jammies and bunny slippers. Her pupils were dilated, a side effect of being a caffeine addict I knew too well.

"Annie Harper", she said, extending her hand, "I'm the public defender."

"Great to meet you, Annie. Now would you mind explaining why you're keeping us from talking to our perp?"

"You can't call him a perp! He's not been tried in court yet. Besides, aren't you from the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration? Why are you out here questioning kids?"

"Here," said Dakota handing her a piece of paper, "This should clear things up"

"Kid?" I asked.

"Didn't you go through the case file?" she asked us, while trying to look somewhat presentable.

"Danny Gutierrez is sixteen."