Hello all, it's been a while, but suffice to say I'm back.
This story is my attempt to regains spontaneity as I write.
*NINJA EDIT* and there are fewer grammar mistakes than that would imply because of the lovely AliceInTheSunlight (consult her on all things language related, trust me)
Eventual KaiShin
Also Kind of Dark.
Death Game
Chapter 1: The Man
In a dark room, there sat an old television set. Lines of static flickered and ran down the screen. A man, his face contorted by the static, was making empathetic gestures from behind the curved glass. "You-" he said. "-could be the one. You in the silly hat, you with the pride so swollen it's ballooned and swallowed you up. You bored genius, not so bored anymore, once you hear me out. Life got no surprises? Well, you are wrong. Because what better surprise for all of you, than my game."
Opposite the television is a gnarled chair whose wooden limbs twisted out of the darkness like tendrils. On the chair sat a boy, no more than twenty years old, judging by the smooth shaven chin and slim hands. He had one hand on his chin, and was regarding the television screen from under lowered eyelids. There was a sharp glint to his pupils, as if he could see beyond the glass and the static, and comprehend the man as if he were in front of him, instead of behind this one way mirror.
The man continued to expound, his clothing old fashioned, like a WWI veteran without the badges. His voice was similarly coloured in shades of worn sepia. "I, MacArthur myself, personally invite you to participate. I can see you, perhaps clearer than you can see yourselves. And I detect..." The man in the box paused, and his hands fumbled at his tie, before quickly dropping innocuously back to into his expansive gestures. He jabbed a finger through the screen.
The boy sank back into the hard back of his chair, and his hands tightened on the edge of the seat.
"I detect blood-lust. A thirsting rage, a coursing desire. You seek blood, you misfits of society. And I – we – this game will give you blood. More than you hope for, more than you seek. You will be sated, as you have never been before - whether you rob blood banks, or commit homicide, or snack furtively on the veins of your children at night. We will give you death, and blood, and blood, and blood, and blood-"
"Enough," the boy commanded, his voice soft. The television screen wavered and snapped into a thin white line, before vanishing into black. The room was abruptly cast into complete shadow.
The boy stood from the chair, which seemed to release him with a sigh. He was a young man, with pale skin and black hair spiked in a cowlick, but otherwise tamed, clad in an ultramarine suit. He turned a pair of clear blue eyes towards the light filtering through a pair of bars on the doors.
His voice was resolute. "Let me out. I've seen enough."
The room was silent. The boy crossed his arms in front of his chest and exuded a soft hiss. Finally, a man's head moved in, obstructing the light filtering in through the bars. A long clang like two glasses smashed together, and a scream of metal, before the door swung reluctantly open on heavy hinges.
The man stood back, and allowed the boy to pass. With a final glance into the room and a tiny shiver wracking his shoulders, the boy stepped gratefully out of the dark room and into artificial fluorescent light.
The man revealed himself to be middle-aged, with prominent bags under his eyes. A stray strand of grey hair fell in front of his eyes – too long – and he brushed it back behind his glasses with an absent gesture. "Shocking," he murmured. "Truly shocking. We're sorry to bring you into this Kudo, but you're the best we know. Bar that, you're the best around." He averted his eyes, conscience stealing over him in a guilty wave. "But you're barely out of high school," he grimaced. Finally, as if a great load suddenly emptied its contents on his stomach, he doubled over and clutched his head in his hands, motionless on the ground.
Kudo looked taken aback, before giving a small smile. Resigned, bitter. "It's alright Inspector," he said gently, and kneeled beside the man, one hand clasping his shoulder. "There's no need to blame yourself. When there are homicides, there will always be homicide detectives. Better to use whatever resources you have, than to let them run rampant."
The Inspector seemed abashed at being comforted by a man some two decades his junior. Though this was Kudo, who had homicide cases stumbling across his path almost as soon as he could crawl. There was something deeply sad, he reflected, and deeply disconcerting about the boy. His silhouette was straight, his back unbent as he strode purposely, eyes sliding past the room and leaving with conclusions and scenarios with each pass of those clear blue eyes. An intellect and experience so great for his age, Kudo Shinichi was aptly named the 'child prodigy', and even as he outlived the 'child' and grew to an adult, the prodigy suffix never left his name, except on occasion, to be replaced with 'master'.
The Inspector fingered his badge, and turned it over with his thumb. It felt as if the flimsy piece of plastic were the only thing between him and immediate retirement. He cast a furtive glance at the open door, beyond which sat the television, shrouded in gloom. It had been found in the abandoned home of a man in his 30s; alcoholic, unemployed, prone to depressive bursts, followed by weeks of extreme mania. No family. Had written journals with pages filled with odes to sharp objects. The ideal makings of a madman, or a murderer.
The television had been playing the tape on repeat, in an empty room with a single wooden chair placed in front of it. The occupant of the house and owner of the television had disappeared only days earlier, failing to turn up to his weekly check-up at his local police-solicited psychologist. The psychologist had immediately alerted an officer, who passed the case on the Inspector after realizing that the man was not on any official record and there were no handbooks describing what to do in such circumstances. The Inspector had spent days frisking the unit, taking fingerprint samples which turned up nothing but the alcoholic man's own grungy prints. He had scoured the floors, examined minute hairs, tracked the tape to a post office in Australia where, mysteriously, all records vanished.
A week later, he was staring at his cell phone, the number of one 'Shinichi Kudo' flashing across the screen. His fingers, suddenly heavy and clumsy, had moved and fell on the call button.
Shinichi's answering voice had been quiet, assured. He had known of course. Not of the specific case, but whenever the Inspector's number flashed on his own cell phone screen he knew it was another 'special' incident The Inspector could imagine him, picking up the cell dutifully with slim fingers. Inside that too intelligent head, thinking, I'm done. I'm done cleaning up humanity's garbage, but I'll still do it. Because who else will.
The Inspector lifted his head out of his hands and unbent himself, staring after Shinichi's retreating silhouette. He would save them yet, he thought. If not Kudo, then the next generation of Holme's fans. With that small resolution lit, he took a breath and followed Shinichi out into the briefing room.
"32 disappearances in two weeks-"
"What will the public think?"
"So far, 24 are known homicide risk factors, and 4 have committed a crime. The rest are civilians."
"We can't discount the fact that we may have overlooked some risk factors during the tests. Some symptoms do manifest themselves later in life."
"-this is preposterous! We have to send out a report! People need to be aware this is happening-"
"Who's the man? He's frightening. He talks of blood like-,like-"
"-how do you propose to find these people by keeping quiet!"
A woman was pacing about the room, a sheaf of papers clutched white knuckled in her hands. Several others – 3 people in total – varying from middle aged to seasoned, have similar papers spread out before them on an ornate coffee table. There were mugs beside their hands, but they were mostly untouched and growing cold.
A woman's head snapped up as she noticed Shinichi's silhouette in the doorway. "Kudo!", she cried. A terse silence descended upon the company.
A ghost of a smile traced Shinichi's lips. "It hasn't been long, Inspector Keira, Inspector Rajik, Inspector Gon."
They gave a small laugh at that.
"Please, sit down, Kudo." Keira gestured at an empty seat beside her and Rajik produced a styrofoam cup and poured it full of fragrant brown liquid. Shinichi relaxed into the chair and took the cup into both hands, tipping it down his throat.
He released a sigh and clasped his hands in front of him, on the desk.
Meanwhile, Nakamori had entered the room, and sat himself quietly to one side of Gon, who acknowledged him with a brief nod.
"You've all been very thorough this time around," he began. The gathered Inspectors shared a congratulatory smile between them. "However, there is one thing that was overlooked." He paused, and reached over to pour himself another cup. The liquid flowed down in a steady stream, even as his eyebrows furrowed. "That man was extending an invitation. Everyone who disappeared, if they were responding to his invitation, would have gone of their own free will."
Inspector Gon, a middle-aged man with eyebrows drawn low on a strong jawed face, straightened. "But you don't know. They could have been blackmailed. Indeed, we found ink stains on top of the cassette where a letter could have been folded."
Shinichi shook his head. "No – all of the disappearance were routine. The people simply vanished. 32 is a large sample size. If there was blackmail, or threats involved, we can reasonably assume that some number of them would have left evidence to suggest this. A covert letter, an anonymous call. Something. Nothing unusual turned up. Meaning, each person went to this-, this game out of their own will."
He paused and uncurled his hands on the table. He looked at his hands as if contemplating why on earth they were attached to his body before clenching them again, restrained in his lap. "And I know this because –" suddenly, his lips were dry. He licks them once, quickly, aware of the weight of the gathering's collective eyes on him. "I, also, received a cassette."
"What!" Nakamori slammed his hands explosively on the table. "Kudo! You could be charged for wilfully withholding information potentially valuable to a case. More than that – the other invitees are criminals! People who murder without discrimination!"
"I know!" Shinichi snapped, rising out of his own seat. "Do not think that has escaped me Inspector! But the cassette is real, I've watched him speak his twisted message on my living room TV. I'm no longer a child!" He held Nakamori's eyes for a heartbeat, the older man's look of betrayal cutting him more deeply than he would admit. "Besides," he added, pressing his forehead to his knuckles, "this is also an opportunity."
"I won't allow it!" Nakamori shouted. "Shinichi, you are too young, too wilful. This man is more dangerous than you understand."
"What about my other cases," Shinichi challenged. "There is no difference, but you seem set on inventing one, Nakamori."
Kiera had a hand on Nakamori's sleeve, and as he made as if to continue his verbal battle, she pulled the him down. With a stern stare, she caught Shinichi's eye. "Kudo," she said, softly. "We trust your judgement. But Nakamori is right. You're young, talented. It would be a waste to lose you to this mad man."
Shinichi's mouth opened. "But you have no leads, insufficient evidence-"
The woman's unyielding stare stopped him. "It's non-negotiable, Shinichi," she said, and her tone is final.
Shinichi bit his lip and sat back, consigned to the outskirts of the conversation sat the detectives talked in circles about the case... the man... the game. He drinks his coffee, and when his cup empties, refills it. Over and over, like clockwork until the hands of the clock affixed to the opposite wall strikes a digit, and the inspectors left the room. Nakamori was the last to leave. He looks at Shinichi for a long moment, opens his mouth, then seems to think better of it and stalks out the room.
Shinichi was left in an empty room lit with unnatural light, an empty Styrofoam cup in one hand, his chin in the other. He felt drained. Nakamori was someone he respected, if not for his skills as an officer, then as a person. He did not know what made him loose his tight reins on his temper, but it had raged forth and wrecked havoc, with Shinichi cowering and powerless to stop it. He was being coddled, because of his age, his face still soft and youthful despite his twenty years. But he had been exposed to more cases, and solved more murders than the four of them combined. Blood was nothing to him. The blank gazes, bodies stiffening into tree-limbs and cold flesh with the onset of rigor mortis was scenery. Unpleasant, but unremarkable.
He tipped his head back and consulted the blank ceiling. The man's words had struck a strange chord with him. The narrator appeared antique – the clip seemed to have been shot in the early '90s, and the voice proclaiming 'blood, and blood, and blood' was worn and crackling with age.
Despite himself, he felt a quickening of his pulse. Blood meant nothing to him, but he did not thirst after it, it was a fixture, like furniture, in his daily life. But the bloodstained mystery, the tale of the murderer and his victim, never failed to fill him with a thrill that reached into his gut. He bit off a hungry gasp.
A crawling realization tingled like a prophecy up his spine. In a way, he reflected, he was enamoured with blood.
That night, Shinichi drew the curtains of his bedroom close and ordered take away from the local pizza joint. He sat down at the couch and replayed the cassette tape of the man, pausing when he spoke of blood with the primal fascination in his worn voice, and rewinding to play it again... and again... and again.
"Blood, and blood, and blood and blood andbloodandblodsandoblobooood..."
The pizza delivery man had an unfailing smile as he handed Shinichi the pizza, the well groomed young man before him no doubt a model citizen, he thought. But his expression quickly turned to one of distaste and fear as the ghostly wail of the TV set floated out of the doorway, casting Shinichi's puzzled frown into a sinister mask of a madman.
The pizza man retreated with a hasty tip of his hat, and the path winding through the gardens of the mansion no longer seemed so welcoming, with the plant tendrils becoming fingers that threatened to drag the man into a forest of madness, with the mad boy, a soundtrack of "blood and blood and blood" singing derisively in the background.
Shinichi, meanwhile, had taken the pizza to the couch, and proceeded to eat it, pulling the cheese gently apart with his front teeth. When the box was devoured, he noticed it was too big for his bin, so he took it outside and left it on the porch for the native residents of his garden to sniff over curiously in his absence. He took a watch, his cell phone, a length of string, a torch, a large water bottle (filled), a large fur lined jacket and bag of first aid implements and put it in his bag. Finally, he reached into his pocket and unfolded a piece of brown parchment paper.
He read out the two words scrawled in neat cursive on the front before carefully folding it back again and tucking it into his breast pocket.
As the moon sailed its way across the velvet sky, she shone her light onto the garden of one Shinichi Kudo. It was strangely wild, the moon thought. The plants seemed restless and eager to conquer the solemn brick mansion which had stood in the middle of their domain uncontested for so many years, now empty.
For Shinichi Kudo was no longer there.
TBC
