"For the atrocious act of murder, the accused is judged of being guilty and will at this moment be sentenced to a lifetime in prison."
Locke was indifferent as he got cuffed. If he felt anything, he did a great job at hiding it as he was grabbed by the arms and pulled away from the stands by the Bailiffs*.
Then, wading through the innumerable reporters waiting outside, Locke felt a tap on his shoulder as he was being pushed into the bus, the hand of the person who touched him somehow getting past the officers on both his sides in the narrow stairway.
Locke turned his head around to find a tall female reporter, seemingly satisfied that she won his attention, looked down at a notepad she was holding, and voiced out rather directly, "What did you feel after killing someone?" before looking up at him with an expectant gaze.
He looked up at the sky, an escaped ray of brilliant sunlight reflecting off his dark eyes as he gazed at the clouds soaring high up in the air before answering. "Pride. Satisfaction. The world may label me as scum, but I did it for my brother. And I will never regret it."
The reporter stared at him, slightly stunned, both at his hoarse yet loud voice and his answer, before raising her voice, "Don't you feel an iota of guilt? A need to seek redemption of some sort, even if for the sake of yourself?"
"Will this guilt or redemption you speak of bring back my brother?" The reporter had no answer for this, but she couldn't help herself from grumbling, "Scum."
Locke revealed a cold, bitter smile at that as he muttered, "What'd I just say?" before disappearing into the bus. He went past the seats filled with other criminals and officers before easing himself into a seat near the middle of the bus, patting down his messy hair as he leaned his head against the window.
It wasn't long before the bus left behind the sea of reporters as he sat in silence, pondering over the reporter's question before lightly shaking his head and snorting. The scenery flashed by, the busy shops, highways, people enjoying themselves with their families or friends, people tired and exhausted of their lives.
The world kept moving, not waiting for anybody, as Locke watched with an impassive look on his face. His life was over. All that was left of his pathetic existence was rotting in a cell for the rest of his days.
The sound of screeching tires and opening doors brought him out of his musing as he was pulled by the bailiffs, dragging him out of the bus before stopping in front of an 11 feet tall gate with two uniformed guards in front of it.
One of the guards spoke into a device on his shoulder, a buzz sounding from inside the gate as a door, barely measuring around half of the size of the massive gate swung open, making him duck as he entered; the guards beside him catching his neck and pushing down.
Locke glanced around as he entered; there was a door in front of him, identical to the one behind, as well as a uniformed officer sitting behind a desk on his left, who didn't even look at him as he asked for his name, taking a pen out to jot his name down.
"Locke Doomstone" He cringed when he uttered the name he had created for him and his brother when they left the orphanage but the man in front didn't seem to care.
The man bent down to get a prison uniform as a small T.V. in the left corner showed the news, playing a poorly recorded video of Locke responding to the reporter. Locke ignored it as the man handed him an orange jumpsuit before he walked through the small door, sparing a last glance at the T.V.
He made his way through a white hallway filled with prison cells on both sides as the ones inside sized him up. Locke stood tall for his age at 5'8, dark-skinned with messy brown-black hair with a muscular build. His eyes were sharp and indifferent. But he was nervous and excited under this well-built facade; his heart was beating so loudly he was sure everybody could hear it.
He took a couple more turns and arrived at a lone cell, 54F, the steel barred door groaning as it swung open before closing as he made his way inside. The echos of lone footsteps faded away as he looked around the room;
There was a single uncomfortable-looking bed with a thin mattress, white sheets covering it with a single pillow on top near the right side, touching the wall. To the opposite side was a steel toilet and nothing else, whilst to the middle, a little into the back, was a punching bag hanging still with rolls of bandages lying on the floor.
Locke threw his clothes to the bed as he tried on his jumpsuit, stretching a bit before wrapping the bandages expertly around his arms and legs, throwing a few jabs and high kicks at the bag. He was glad that they gave him the one thing that he asked for.
His mind wandered off again to the conversation he had with the reporter as he continued throwing punches. Could he have done things in a better way? He probably could've, but he wasn't in the right mind, and he was sure not a lot of people would be if they were in his place.
Did he regret anything? Locke faltered as something popped up in his mind. He regretted not being there for his brother in his final moments. He might deserve hell for his actions, but he regretted nothing else.
Remembring the girl who took his brother's life enraged him. How they begged for his mercy at the last throes of their life infuriated him. How he smiled inhumanely as their blood sprayed, getting even into his teeth, made him realize that from that moment on, he had no one to live for, and it saddened him.
He thought of how they left his brother's body gruesomely hanging from his legs, as he took in all the rage left in him and shot out a right hook, the whole building trembling in the echoes of his punch and...something else.
___________
Bailiffs* are officers in the court of law who uphold justice.