Author's note: This is my first Soul Eater fanfic, a oneshot in the kind of cops-and-detectives setting that you often see in AU fics. This may end up being extended project if I can come up with a decent storyline. In the meantime, however…
Update: This story now has a sequel, of sorts, in 'Urban Legends', which is set in the same universe.
Death City.
It's an appropriate name.
High above the city streets, Masamune Nakatsukasa gazes through the filthy window of his one-room accommodation and listens to the miserable wail of sirens. He is a connoisseur of sirens, he likes to think. There is the quick shriek of the police squad cars scurrying like mad rats from one mundane catastrophe to the next. There is the drawn-out moan of the fire engine, and the jittery call of the ambulance. Oh yes, he recognises those sounds like old friends, welcomes them up into the small confines of his room. If he closes his eyes, it is easy to convince himself that he has not left home at all.
Home.
Except it was never home, was it? Almost four million people live in the city of Los Angeles, and he doubts there are many of them who would call that bloated mess of concrete and rusty steel home. Los Angeles, as far as he is concerned, is somewhere where you happen to be. LA is something that happens to you, and which you try to endure. It was never really his home.
Not that Death City could really be called an improvement. At least in LA there was some small sense that you were somewhere, somewhere with a future that you could be part of. If you went to the right part of downtown and stood amongst all the arrogant glass towers and the equally arrogant people, you might yet be able to convince yourself that here, finally, was a town where you could make it big. After all, everyone heads West in America, don't they? And Death City is where they end up if they can't make it all the way.
"Can't make it all the way." Masamune smiles at that. They ought to make that the city motto. Because really, what is Death City? All the politics – such as there is in the state of Nevada – happens in Carson City. All of the gambling happens in Las Vegas. So what does that leave Death City, the third largest city in the state? In the words of his old boss, a foul-tempered and foul-mouthed man called Giriko, it leaves it with "a great steaming heap of fuck-all".
And yet the city survives. From where he stands, staring out over the rooftops from his fourteenth-floor room, he can see the streets of the city are choked with orange headlights and the hurrying figures of office workers released from yet another day. There are even skyscrapers here – not many, and they don't so much scrape the sky as they do jab half-heartedly at its underbelly, but skyscrapers nonetheless. And of course there are the sirens: the sound of any healthy city, the echoes of a thriving underworld.
He turns away from the window and looks over the sparse apartment. It is exactly what you'd expect for the price he paid for it: a limp, sagging bed, dirty carpet, washbasin encrusted with what looks like centuries worth of grime. The plaster on the walls is missing in places, and brick peeks through like skullbone through a head wound. Clothes leak out of his single suitcase like they're trying to escape, and the remains of a Chinese takeaway lie forgotten in a corner. Masamune sighs. It won't be like this for long, he promises himself. This is the start of his new life. Not as lucrative a life as he had on the West Coast, perhaps, but a life nonetheless. Which is more that can be said for what is left for him in LA.
His eyes narrow at the memory. Damn that Giriko. The upper levels of Arachnophobia are always fractured by the incessant power struggle between that man and Mosquito, both vying for Arachne's attention and approval. But this time Grirko went too far. His plan to land Mosquito in jail backfired quite spectacularly and he let his second in command Masamune take the fall for it. Damn him to hell. And now Masamune is hiding from Arachnophobia's goons in this dead-end city while Giriko is probably drinking hundred-dollar whiskey straight from the bottle and bragging to some call girl about how shrewd he is.
He's taken a risk, coming to Death City, and he knows it. This is still technically Arachnophobia territory – or at least, parts of it are. Most still belongs to the Star Clan, or at least that's what Tsubaki's told him. Arachnophobia here answers to Medusa, Arachne's younger sister, and it's no big secret that the two sisters hate each other's guts. So hopefully word of his arrival hasn't reached the snake-queen's ears yet. And by the time it does…well, with any luck he'll have everything sorted out by then.
As he sits down on the bed, still deep in thought, there is a knock at the door.
He's not expecting anyone. Could Arachnophobia have…?
"Who is it?" he calls out, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. His hand reaches for the Glock he keeps under the pillow.
"The King of England, you stupid fucker. Open the door, it's Sid."
Sid?...Sid!
Sid Barett, the 'Gentle Giant', one of the top enforcers of the Star Clan gang. Tsubaki's mentioned him. Hardly surprising they send one of their best men to greet me, considering what I can offer them, he thinks arrogantly.
The door to the room has no security chain or peephole. If you want those you go to a hotel where the room prices are higher. When he first got here that bugged him, but now he thinks nothing of it. With the Glock hidden behind his back in his right hand, he opens the door and has just enough time to think that Sid Barett looks nothing like how Tsubaki described him before – ohshit – a huge, white-gloved fist swings almost lazily through the gap and right into his face.
Masamune squawks, as much with surprise as pain, and staggers backwards. With a crash the door to his room is knocked open and sends him sprawling on his back. He lands with his pistol trapped underneath him, still clutched in his right hand. A massive figure steps through the rectangle of light and looms over him. Masamune looks up into the face of an enormous black man with a livid white X-shaped scar running across the bridge of his nose. He is wearing a black suit and black t-shirt which stand in stark contrast to his almost ridiculously formal-looking gloves. The sleeves of the suit jacket have been cut short and he wears leather straps studded with metal spikes around his wrists.
Dimly he is aware that the door has slammed shut behind this man and he may have even heard the rattle of a key turning in the lock but all he can think about is how he has to get the gun out from under him. His arm whips out and is arcing around to point the gun right at the centre of the man's scar – thanks for the target you bastard – when suddenly there is agony in his palm and his arm isn't moving any more.
He screams and turns to look down the length of his arm and screams even harder when he sees that his hand has been pinned to the floor by an enormous butterfly knife. He goes to scream again but now the man's gloved hand is over his mouth and his other hand is at Masamune's throat.
"Go on, bitch. Scream again, see what happens," the man says, almost invitingly. "Are you going to scream?" Masamune shakes his head as much as he can, his eyes full of fear. "No? Good. 'Cos Crona here doesn't know how to deal with screaming." He nods his head at Masamune's twitching, impaled hand. "And you already know what happens when Crona meets something he doesn't know how to deal with."
Crona? As if on cue, a tall, frail-looking youth steps out from behind the man. He has pink-dyed hair and is dressed in skinny jeans and a jacket a couple of sizes too small for him. A dim part of Masamune's mind wonders whether this Crona is a boy or a girl. It's surprisingly hard to tell. A much more alert part of him stares transfixed at the knife Crona is twirling between his fingers at a blinding speed.
Crona giggles and his head lolls to one side like his neck is broken. "Hey, look, Ragnarok. I'm a pretty good shot!" He grins. It looks as if his face is being split open.
"That's great, Crona. Now sit down and shut the fuck up, I've got shit to do."
The man, Ragnarok, turns his attention back to Masamune. Crona sits on the bed and plays with the butterfly knife some more.
"So you're the guy who ratted out the wizened old bastard in LA, huh?" he asked. "Can't say I give much of a shit, but that's not why we're here. We're here because a certain Masamune Nakatsukasa is rumoured to be thinking of going over to the Star Clan gang. We're here because those same rumours say that he's got a laptop full of dirt on Arachnophobia he's going to give to said Star fuckers in exchange for his safety. We're here, you two-faced fuck, because Lady Medusa wants two things: she wants that dirt on her beloved older sis, and she wants to send anyone thinking of jumping ship a message."
Masamune's eyes are wide and beginning to sting with tears. With Ragnarok's hands over his mouth and throat all he can do is make a pathetic whimpering noise. Crona stands up and saunters over to him with a strange loose-jointed gait that makes him look like a broken puppet. He leans down until his face is less than an inch from Masamune's. The knife in his hand goes swishswishclick as he spins it round and round.
"And to send a message," he whispers, "we have to make things messy."
And the knife comes down again and again and again. Ragnarok grunts with effort and there is a sound like a damp twig snapping. There is a muffled cry, followed by a quiet gurgling noise and finally silence.
A quiet sigh of pleasure. Blue eyes are held transfixed by a glistening crimson blade. "My blood is black, you know?"
"Yes, Crona, I do fucking know. That's, like, the tenth time you've told me tonight. Now let's find his laptop and get the hell out of here." Ragnarok checks his watch. It's not yet 1a.m. and they only have two more stops to make after they finish up here. He smiles in satisfaction. We're making good time.
Under his feet, the stains on the carpet are merging into one, an advancing front of red overwhelming the small blotches of coffee and dirt.
Death City.
It's an appropriate name.