Another Detective Conan fanfic-which I feel is ending soon (in Gosho time: oh, about five years). Rum is close, Gin is suspicious, and we get a glimpse of Shinichi behind Conan: sometime not seen in a very long time. We get two BO cases in a row. And the Mystery Girl, Mary, is also close by.
My, oh, my. The fandom is exploding. (Or maybe just me.)
Anyway. Here is my attempt to envision the final showdown (based on some Tumblr prompts I found, but too lazy to copy and paste them).
Enjoy.
He wakes to the smell of cigarettes. The air tingles of a Marlboro scent, of a puffy smoke that is not too strong, but strong enough. With the scent comes the flow of memory, and with it, pain and panic.
"Ai, you have to hide. Now!"
His mind is still sharp underneath the matted blood atop his scalp, and his breathing is normal. But his reaction, he realizes, does not change a thing: he is still in the belly of the beast, in the lion's den, in the devil's room (A metal chair, rusted with...blood, nickel Smith and Wesson handcuffs, in a room that reeks of oil, decomposition, and rats.).
They've found them. Finally, they have.
(He is aware of two people in the room, other than him: one smoking in front of him, watching him; the other pacing behind him, a heavy, hard pace, favoring the left leg as the flimsy wooden boards beneath him quiver, smoking as well-Vodka?)
He's surprised it's took them this long, what with Vermouth's traitorous behavior, and his involvement with the FBI and Kir and Bourbon, and his appearances as "Holmes's apprentice" or "Sleeping Kogorou's assistant". But it was time.
Time to fix his mistakes, to bring them in for good, to end this sick torture. Slowly, he opens his eyes, feeling once again the cage of a six-year-old-
Wait-his body…
"Good morning, Detective," a thick voice says, smiling behind the cigar. Chills run up and down his spine, and he swears he cringes at the sight. Sweat begins to collect on his palms, on his neck. Gin. "You should be thankful to us. We made sure you returned to your original state before we began." (Of course-how can they torture a six-year-old's body without encountering difficulties in keeping him alive? They have a better chance of inflicting more pain to make a man talk than a child.)
Gin would make a brilliant detective-had he not been a murderer, a criminal, he would have thought of Gin as one. He had been able to find him and discover his identity; he still had to determine how, exactly, this was done.
He swallows down the shudder he feels at the thought of his transition from Conan to Shinichi. Who gave him these clothes (Dress pants, dress shirt, and no shoes.)? What became of Conan's suit and bowtie?
"An antidote?" he asks.
"A permanent one," Vodka nods, appearing from behind him, smoking a Winston (a lighter, airy smell), "In contrast with the ones Sherry made for you."
"Where is she, Meitantei?" Gin stands, walking over to him. "As your gift of gratitude, it's only polite to give us information in return."
(He remembers, now, the pain of the antidote before he lost consciousness inside the Porsche after they grabbed him and knocked him out, like that first time, just like that first encounter. He remembers Ai's voice of panic and her screams of protest, and Agasa's shocked murmur in the background before he slammed the payphone down.
"Kudo-kun?"
"Ai, they're onto us. You have to hide."
"How? What have you done?!"
"Ai, you have to hide. Now!"
"Shinichi-kun? Ai-kun, what's-"
Slam goes the phone into the booth, and slam goes his heart, slamming against its cage.)
"I'm afraid I don't know any Sherry, Gin," he spits out, gritting his teeth. (Keep calm. Do not let emotions cloud judgement.) "My bad."
His gleeful response sends the worst fear he has ever felt down into the depths of his memory, to scar him forever. He doesn't know if he'll survive this, but he knows that if he does, he will never forget this feeling of falling down a well of fifty thousand feet, and falling, and falling into a pit of darkness and fear.
"Very well. I expected it to be this way-I looked forward to it, in fact. Vodka, call Rum. You may begin."
Gin turns to leave, his long silver hair trailing wisps of smoke behind him-but his shoulders start to shake with laughter, and the beast looks back at him with those eyes that always, always strike him and chill him to the deepest part of his core. "And remember, Meitantei. There's no rescue for you, not anymore. There'll be no mistake this time. After all, there are only monsters here."
More to come soon.