Compulsion - Chapter 1: Prologue: Bullet Hole

Sequel to Obsession. Thank you, inspiration. (The Sin of Innocence is temporarily put on hold, so that I concentrate on one project at a time.) The summer of 2013 is finally here, and as hinted beforehand, here is the sequel! I've been working on my own novel, but as complicated as it is, I need a break from it, in which I'm hoping this sequel will provide.

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.


On the cold, rainy night of January the fifth, it has happened again.

The grisly death of another noble.

It is an inexplicable death, brought about by obscured motives of an unidentified killer. A gruesome and cruel bereavement of an—to a modest stretch—innocent life. No matter how many times he, Arthur Randall, has trained his eyes on the consequence, he cannot get accustomed to the horrendous sight of the corpse. Protuberant eyes indicate the unspeakable terror that has slyly danced before them. The pale integument wrapping the abandoned shell of a human (indeed, it is nothing but a hollow shell deprived of a soul) glisten in the eerie moonlight. The mouth, its jaws slack as if forcibly pried apart, is a gaping aperture. The body is sprawled ungracefully on the bloodstained ground—though, of course, this noble no longer has the capacity for feeling embarrassed at his less than proper position.

The noble bleeds from three—it is consistently three—unsettling holes imposed upon his skull (ah, yes, scrutinizing this macabre scene does well to puncture Randall's appetite; he, as per usual, must swallow carefully while resisting the urge to regurgitate so that his honor stays intact). Randall shies away from the pelting raindrops and shudders, but is not quite sure that the chills are due to the weather itself.

"Tell me again, precisely, what has occurred here," Randall tells the bumbling fool of a carriage driver—who, in which case, is sniffling and crying at such a frantic level it is a miracle if one manages to extract an intelligible articulation from him. Fred Aberline, his subordinate, is doing his best to mitigate the pitiful, shocked fellow, but seemingly to no avail.

"I-I was, a-as told, I was transporting Baron Crawford from his residence to Dowell's bank, wh-when"—his eyes go wide as fear cultivates within him and manifests as a throbbing bulge in his throat, impeding his speech—"wh . . . when!"

His incomprehensible spluttering is testing Randall's short fuse. "Would you quit your blunders!"

"—when I heard a loud crash from the carriage, which made me curve to a stop rather recklessly"—he motions toward the wildly parked carriage that is tottering near the pavement—"and that's when his body was hurled out and it landed on the ground where you see it now, s-sir!" the carriage driver hastily utters the rest of his exposition, jumping back a bit and throwing up his hands when Randall has impatiently censured him.

Out of sheer annoyance, Randall hisses, forming fists by his sides in a belligerent manner (the miserable carriage driver mistakenly thinks that Randall's accentuated anger is directed at him, and stumbles a few steps backwards). However, fortunately for that fool, it is not him that is feeding Randall's exasperation—though he is not far off from being the principal reason; it is, in actuality, this accursed case.

"How many counts of this case does this make, Aberline?" Randall asks.

"This would be the sixth consecutive murder of a noble, sir," Fred replies, skimming through the documents in his hands, somewhat nervously, evidently disconcerted with this anomalous chain of deaths. It is inauspicious, no doubt, an omen that something treacherous will be lurking at their doorsteps very soon.

His teeth bash together in irritation that is mostly stemmed from his inability to do anything, with their minimal and petty amount of information on the killer. "Dammit!"

"You sound rather frustrated, Randall," a cool, apathetic voice ignites from behind him, cutting through the grave silence hovering over them. "Perhaps you are in need of my assistance?"

It is not necessary for him to extend this to his vision in order to classify the owner of this disquieting voice; simply hearing his impassive intonations, slightly tinged with condescension, is enough. The footsteps click to place, in a calm and sophisticated fashion, behind him, and that is when Randall chooses to turn around—but he does so sluggishly to demonstrate that he is largely uninterested in the newcomers.

Randall is certain to douse his tone with venomous mockery, "Well, it's the Phantomhive dog listlessly wandering around with his butler once again. Bored, are you not?"

Without faltering, Ciel Phantomhive levels his hardened gaze with Randall's. However, he does not deny the claim of being spiritless, because that is essentially what has become of him over this tormenting period of work stagnation. Simply rotting in the all-too-familiar, mundane environment of his manor has impelled him to temporarily leave it behind to enter the bustling city of London, despite the unfavorable weather.

"Quite so," Ciel admits, after a while.

"And, let me address this for a moment, as to why you are here. Suppose you are—"

"I do not answer to hypothetical situations, I'm afraid," Ciel shrewdly declares, a light, sardonic smirk wallowing to the surface. Sebastian, his demon butler, in the meanwhile is inspecting Crawford's corpse at a cautious distance, so that he will not provoke the Scotland Yard officers who are immoderately stringent about the detachment of those they deem irrelevant to the case at hand.

Randall scowls at his intervention and proceeds, "Well, let's just say you are bored to the degree that you find it requisite to poke your nose into something that is entirely not of your business. I suppose you have approached me so that you may gain some knowledge on the details of these events."

"Suppose I am. Suppose I am rather intrigued by the mystery of it all, and just sufficiently curious to ask for some details on this matter."

The Scotland Yard commissioner twists his lips in a sinister smirk, having waited for things to culminate to this point so that he may exercise his authority. "I absolutely decline."

"I thought as such," Ciel comments tiredly, motioning to his butler. On cue, Sebastian appropriates the constructive documents from Fred—lamentably for him, his protests are greeted with negligence—and delivers it to Ciel's outstretched hands. Ciel's single eye, that boasts of a pulchritudinous sapphire color, rovers over the pages, as his fingers expertly flip through them. "So it seems the victims are invariably nobles. They all have three holes drilled through their skulls. Weapon is most likely a gun. Those that happen to be around the victims at their time of deaths are oblivious to how exactly the victims met their demise. This plausibly insinuates that the killer is very astute and keen, always within a safe range of his target, only attacking when he is definite that no one else will bear witness—"

Randall confiscates the documents, his hands uncompromisingly snatching them from Ciel's possession. "I pitied you, so I allowed you a brief interval to play detective. Yet, now, I'm afraid, you must cease your worthless game."

"But, I am capable of—"

Those who are well-acquainted with Randall know that is a frank, blunt and candid man; moreover, since this is the despicable Earl of Phantomhive he is facing, he has no intention of restraining himself. "I'm aware of your itch to investigate, to free Her Majesty of her encumbering concerns. However, must I add, you must be heedful to your place." His voice is wired with indubitable spite, and it narrows to a hiss filled with contempt toward his closing statement.

Ciel is slightly taken back by the audacity of this fool to belittle him in such a mortifying way, but finds it rather difficult to retaliate, especially with the current circumstances, albeit his aptitude for witticisms. But, Randall is not planning to stop his sinful indulgence in gibing him. The manner in which his grey mustache curves up along with his derisive smirk is repulsive, and Ciel subconsciously clenches his hands into fists.

"The Queen's Watchdog, what an impressive occupation to speak with pride of," Randall says, and none can miss his blatant sarcasm. "How regrettable that it has lost much of its gleam after last year's incident. You are not as great as the Queen has been misled into believing, but I am sure she realizes that now."

Seeing the sharpening scowl, as well as the artfully subtle ire he must hold for him, on the arrogant earl's countenance is a gratifying sight that Randall will forever relish.

Placing a stern hand atop his shoulder, Randall leans in to his ear, his malicious aura securely encompassing him. He deals the finishing blow to Ciel's already crumbling dignity: "Please do well to remember that you are suspended from being her Watchdog. Need I remind you?"

The Earl of Phantomhive is humiliated, so much that even the lofty, sublime title of being an infamous earl is unbearable to accept and craftily wield with satisfaction. Too many are depreciating his merit; in fact, they are insensitively marring the name of Phantomhive with their torrents of denouncements. These are incurred from the previous year's faulty events: coupled with the broad obliteration of Scotland Yard small fries (if he must include, his unlawful breakage from prison) is the complex, indistinct murder of Republican noblesse, where accusations of him being the killer have yet to fully fade and lose their potent and stressful implications.

"Now," Randall offhandedly brushes him away, and returns his attention to the corpse, "would you excuse yourself somewhere else where you will not get in the way of our investigation?"

In that mere moment, the rest of the officers follow suit and present to the earl their backs, as they go on to completely ignore his insignificant presence.

"Young Master," his butler whispers to him, "perhaps we should get out of the rain. You might catch a cold."

Ciel does not pacify his piercing glare—the fervor behind it is birthed from months of insufferable derogation—that oscillates between Randall and the corpse much in semblance to the perpetual swing of a pendulum. He barely responds as his butler gently guides him to their respective carriage.

"That dimwitted hound will never be able to solve this crime," Ciel seethes angrily as he clambers into the leather seat; he does not spare a single glance to the puddle he is creating with his considerably damp clothing. "I do not understand why Her Majesty would not just petition me to carry out this case; I can do as such with virtual ease. This suspension has been quite the burden, and it must be for Her Majesty as well."

"A suspension is a suspension," his butler replies smoothly. "If she were to lift it to ask for your aid, how others hold her in estimation will waver."

"I am aware of that!" Ciel snaps in an indignant manner, thrusting his fingers through his navy-blue hair and intertwining his fringes into knots. "But, it grates on my nerves at the thought of this unfathomable chain of murders that, without question, must be affecting the polite society. Her Majesty will not rest until this case is put to rest. If only she gives me permission . . . I will gain access to more information. But, I cannot move around at my freewill with this parole she has lay upon me."

Surreptitiously, with utmost clandestine, the both of them shift their gazes to a poorly disguised man who, in a failed attempt to be covert, is cowering at an intersection while gripping steadily to his umbrella to shield him from the relentless downpour of the rain.

"This is somewhat of a dilemma, and it does little to quell the disturbance I feel. Take me to my townhouse," Ciel mutters, discontentedly resigning against his seat. His eye travels languidly to the roof of the carriage, as Sebastian maneuvers to the front to steer it.

Indeed, these murders have initiated on the fifth of November last year. Then, it continued on the dates of November 28th, December 1st, December 3rd, December 12th. Things appeared settled from then on, but now, on the fifth of January, the murders have restarted. And it will not terminate until the killer is appeased with something. He seems to attack on random dates. The murders are premeditated to a certain degree, in the sense that he is exceptionally targeting those part of the aristocracy. Otherwise the victims themselves do not have a characteristic connection to one another.

Suddenly wearied, Ciel lets a groan slips from his lips as he covers his eye with his palm, inviting darkness to enclose his mind. He wonders why he is exerting such superfluous energy on a case that he is not authorized to participate in; it must be an undoing habit of his, a predilection to unraveling whatever mystery that dangles like a string, tantalizingly, before him.

Maybe this may result to be a rather modest case, where its alleged intricacies may actually be misconceived into existence. Perhaps it can be a case that even Randall is qualified to solve—simply the notion of that amuses the cynical earl.

Gradually, he releases the tension within him by mentally forming self-assurances that the enigmatic case will reach a elucidating conclusion soon. He permits himself to be allured by the rhythmic clobbering of the wheels of the carriage, slowly sinking into the fantastical realm of reveries.

But, just then, he feels something cut swiftly through the air, and whistle past his ears.

The carriage skids to an impetuous halt, jolting him to a wake. Ciel crashes to the side of it at the violent motion, and pain kindles at his arm.

His eye snaps open. There is a brief, fleeting second where all is still. Instinctively, and without preparation for what is to come, he glances at the small hole that has appeared on the window. The moonlight peeks through it hauntingly.

He hears as Sebastian jumps down from the carriage to capture the perpetrator. Ciel tells himself that he is not fazed in the slightest, as Sebastian should be able to detain the hostile factor infallibly. His gaze does not desert the bullet hole even when Sebastian returns.

"We were under attack, Young Master," Sebastian announces.

"Who did it?" Ciel quietly inquires.

"He . . . has managed to escape."

Astonished, Ciel, at last, rips his gaze from the hole to settle it on Sebastian. His butler is as composed and serene as ever, though there is a tenuous, faint layer of confusion glazing over his crimson eyes.

At the moment, no more words are spoken between them. Ciel's gaze once again drifts; he looks at the gloomy dark clouds environing the city and the rain that is increasingly turbulent.

This assassination attempt, it is not child's play, if the perpetrator has evaded successfully Sebastian. They are both cognizant of that fact.

"Your orders, Young Master?" Sebastian finally breaks the heavy silence, inclining to him in a graceful, impeccable bow.

Ciel narrows his eyes at the distressing bullet hole; beyond its dominant circle, it leaves minor cracks on the glass window, permanently destroying its surface as well as the peace dwelling in his mind. Peril looms nearer—insurmountable and immune to even the earnest of prayers—and sits above them teasingly, just experimentally granting them the bitter, acrid taste of threat. Moldable shadows quiver with excitement in the crevices of his mind. The bullet hole serves as a minatory hallmark of the danger that is always devalued but soon to arrive.

"Take me to my townhouse. I will have to investigate further."

"Even if Her Majesty is against this?" Sebastian cunningly adds.

Ciel folds his hands neatly at his lap. "It's quite simple, Sebastian: Her Majesty does not have to know."