Title: Trials of an Analytic Cure
Summary: Imagine that your next breath is your last. Imagine that your next move could save your life, or end another. Don't lose focus. And don't trust anyone. There are no friends here, and allies are only temporary.
Disclaimer: Idea is far from original and I have no ownership ties to DN.
Author's Note: Sorry for delay! Personal life is going well!
Team Even: Mello(2), Misa(4), Takada(6), L(8)
Team Odd: Near(1), Matt(3), Mikami(5) Light(7)
...
CURE THREE
Though time passed, the sun refrained its rise and night held the elongated chorus of monotony: a reputable constant blanketing a house full of paranoid strangers.
Those strangers, each with a life, a motive, and a desire to make it out alive. To do this, they needed to be the last one standing, destroy one another within the allotted three-day time frame.
This, however, was easier said than done.
Already, each mind was plotting the demise of another, planning the big speech to give the media when they made it out alive, the story they were going to tell the world.
Novels would be written. Biographies, autobiographies, short stories, memoirs. Movies would be made, paid actors acting as victims trapped in a house full of the deranged.
A horror story that has been told time and again, but this time followed by the words 'based on a true story.'
Surviving this hell that they've been tossed into, the winner would escape with not only their life, but the right to tell the world, the right to claim fame, and the ability to live off royalties and never need the job of a common man.
Their lives and futures depended.
In their minds, each occupant was dredging up fictional details of poisonous spiders and an unnatural infestation of rats and roaches. Exaggeration at its best to sell the soul-sucking media.
Lies that are 'okay' to tell. Lies that spoke of suffering and angst beyond that of the norm.
Starvation and decapitation in a Godless environment.
Everyone was thinking along these lines, or maybe not. But no one said otherwise when Misa screamed at the empty mouse trap stained dirty brown from a previous dead rodent. No one chastised Mikami for looking around in disgust and commenting about plausibly unsafe wiring. And no one corrected Takada for inspecting a stain on the wall and accusing it of being a patch of life-threatening mold.
Sometimes, the most average humans make the best actors, fueled by their own truths. In the right lighting, something very real could look like a backdrop, plastic and cardboard props that would fall over with slight persuasion. A stage no one wants to be on.
Every occupant had their own troubles, aside from simply making it out of this cobweb-strewn house of would-be violence, but voicing those troubles would be a weakness no one wanted to bear.
Still, they were teammates and enemies and companions and soon-to-be corpses, all rolled into one.
The Rules plain enough to understand and time as fragile as an elderly woman falling down a flight of stairs without the aid of LifeAlert, action was called for.
The unwritten Rule: Something must happen.
Misa's childish suggestion of using Eeny Meeny Miney Mo to decide who'd be unarmed and defenseless was ignored, and a primitive 'first come, first serve' came into effect as the eight occupants split and scoured the house as individuals for available weapons.
Tables turned, drawers rummaged and left ajar, Takada was the first to procure something of use. From the kitchen, she drew not one- but TWO serrated knives with worn brown handles. She tucked one carefully beneath her sleeve and kept the other at hand. Biting her lip as a wave of anxiety swept through her, she crouched behind a mobile cart and moved to creep out of the kitchen just as Light was entering.
"Takada, was it?" He asked casually, sitting on the counter and crossing his legs like a distinguished gentleman.
Surprised, Takada backtracked and corrected her posture, standing fully and facing the charming brunette. "L-Light! I was just..."
"Calm down, Takada. Being on different teams doesn't mean we can't be allies, does it? A lady like you could use someone to watch your back, warn you when something's going on. You're a reporter, right? Maybe I could be your lead, feed you all the inside information..."
Staring into the brunette's soft earth-toned eyes, her heart skipped a beat and her breath caught between her lungs and her throat. "Light, I... -Call me Kiyomi." With those words, she approached him, small smile in place as she extended her hand and and offered the knife. "You... shouldn't be defenseless, Light."
Returning the smile, he placed his hand over hers, his flesh barely grazing hers as he held her stare. "This is very kind of you... Kiyomi." Then, tightening his grip on her hand, he lunged, forcing her own unsuspecting knife-wielding hand back toward her womanly form and plunging the blade through her right side, just deep enough to lodge the serrated steel between her ribs and puncture a lung.
Takada was torn between shock, anguish, and unrelenting pain as she tried to stumble back, but Light's hold on her persisted and halted any escape; her own arm angled uncomfortably and her hand was caught between his and the seeping wound. She felt the warmth of her own leaking essence and released a harrowing sound before finding her words... "H-How could you...?" Unable to properly form her accusation, she wanted to scream, but a choked sound escaped instead.
"I'm sorry, Takada. You're a very lovely woman." Light spoke softly and relinquished his grip on her, only to drop from the counter and wrap his arms around her, pulling her in close for a too-tight hug. "But," he continued, "three days isn't long to rid this house of seven people. Besides, the world won't miss one reporter, will it? The world is full of people like you, who will tell any story and smudge any truth to get their face out there, their name in the paper. It's wrong."
Takada leaned in and sobbed against his chest for all she was worth, carefully working to unsheathe the blade tucked beneath her sleeve. When she failed to do so after the first couple shakes of her arm, she panicked and shook harder, causing the hidden knife to slip and clatter to the floor.
Light took notice and offered a look of disapproval. "Kiyomi Takada, were you trying to cheat by holding a second knife? The Rules clearly said 'Knife, limit one per team.' I imagine that you were breaking that rule by holding two. So, you're a liar and a cheater." He looked at her with disgust and shook his head.
Just then, the device around Takada's wrist let off a faint buzzing sound and increased the frequency of the pulse it emitted little by little until it became painful. Takada's instinct to fight suddenly kicked in and she shoved her way away from the brunette. The knife inside her forgotten and pain but a distant memory, she placed one hand over her racing heart and raised her left hand to look at her wrist as the flesh beneath the brace became an angry, burning red.
Light watched silently with mild interest as the display on the 'watch' faded and sparks flew.
Takada panted, and swung at Light with as much force as her weakened body could muster, face tinted rouge and tears streaming as she fell to her knees; then she turned her attention to her left limb and watched as her blood literally boiled beneath the flesh in her wrist and a vein burst. Angry blue swelled beneath her skin, darker than any bruise and swelling just enough to show how dire the situation was, the pressure built up, becoming less bearable by the second.
Eyes wide and shock setting in, she looked to Light for an ounce of compassion or consolation but found none. Instead, Light shrugged, kicked the previously dropped knife closer to her, and walked away, softly declaring "I have no sympathy for cheaters. Stay here and die if you want, but you did that to yourself and I won't bear witness to your demise."
And as Light left, Takada shakily took the knife in hand, bringing the sharp point of the blade to her searing, swelling red wrist, the cool metal feeling almost comforting at first... And then, applying force and ripping the blade sideways, her flesh peeled away and a fountain of red oozed and splashed, like the poor effects in a B-rated movie.
Grinding her teeth, Takada didn't even scream. Numb, shocked, and resigned, she pressed the blade to her flesh again, shredding the soft underside of her forearm to ribbons and breathing in rapid intervals as the pressure subsided and her skin became sticky and slick at the same time, blood lubricating until she slumped forward, slack and dying, her heartbeat slowing and the brace on her wrist fizzing and beeping for a moment before her life faded completely and the device slipped off like a used condom.
And just like that, one less reporter can show her face in front of the camera. The next time she'd be viewed publicly would be in a casket, her name in the paper. Her obituary. Her name on a tombstone, her own personal landmark.
Kiyomi Takada
1/12/1985 - Whatever...
She'd be missed by the perverted cameraman she worked with. She'd be missed by her mother and step father. She'd be missed by the circle of friends she pretended to care about. And, her unborn, under-developed child wouldn't be born a bastard.
For some people -people like Miss Kiyomi Takada- this was as close to happy ending as they can get.
Your name in the paper, people to miss you, and a secret taken to the grave.
...
In another room, a particular redhead had just discovered a gun taped to the back of a curio cabinet. Peeling back the tape and taking the weapon in hand, he looked it over carefully and checked the bullet chamber, nodding when it appeared to be fully loaded.
He thought about his competition. He thought about the time frame. He thought about his own abilities and tried to factor in the little he could guess of his opponents...
Holding the gun, feeling the metal turn warm in his grip, a small part of him twinged at a memory long past, about his own father handing him a gun and instructing him how to load it, how to clean it, more importantly, how to use it. He remembered screaming and blood, walls hiding the evidence of what he'd done, and his own father instructing him on the most efficient way to remove such nasty red stains from the carpet.
"It works the same with red wine, but don't use too much ammonia," his father told him with a wink and a small smile: a smile the redhead would never forget... or forgive.
Taking a deep breath, he willed away the memory and tried to estimate his chances of making it out alive. He had a fully loaded revolver, six shots, and a total of seven people would need to be slain. Factor in the fact that others would be out to harm each other, if he stayed clear and kept his wits, survival was very possible.
Momentarily satisfied, he decided to make his way back to a Safe Zone and take a break from the stress.
Through a twisting maze of halls and doors, he passed the brunette known as Light, stopping to look at him -at the red specks that stood out against his otherwise spotless blazer- just before turning to take the stairs. Step by step, he knitted his brows together and looked down, paying attention to the dimensions of the steps as his hand smoothly glided along a railing. Once up the stairs, he turned and opened the door to the first bedroom he could find, appearing startled when L was already present. "S-Sorry," he murmured, lowering his head and avoiding eye contact. "I wasn't aware this room was taken. You're on the other team, so... I'll just go, and-"
"Opposing teams or not, Matt, this is a Safe Zone, and I refuse to attack unfairly," L said simply. "Cake?"
The strange offer caught the redhead's attention and caused him to look up. He was surprised to see that the man known as L was indeed eating a piece of cake. "Where did you...?"
"It was on the dining room table. As far as I know, there are plenty of foods and beverages, and even basic medical supplies."
"L, the cake could be poisoned."
L shook his head. "Unlikely. 33% chance of that happening." And he took a bite. Chewing his food and then speaking with his mouth still full, he stated "you found a gun."
Matt subconsciously gripped the revolver a little tighter. "Y-Yeah, I did. But I probably won't use it. I mean-"
"Why is that? Aren't you going to fight for your life? Or is there so little value in you that it is alright for someone to just kill you on a whim? Would you throw yourself away just because it's convenient? Or will you strive to move forward and progress in this spelunking?"
"It's not that easy, L. In a game, you can play the handsome lead role and do everything right, but sometimes you still unlock the ending where the bad guy wins. And, I just don't know about all... this." With that last word, he vaguely gestured to his surroundings.
L studied the teen's face intensely for a moment before saying, "If you don't make it out, it's because you didn't want to bad enough, or because someone else wanted it more."
Matt looked at L for a long minute before sitting down and refusing to give a response.
And L ate his cake.
...
Trapped in his own torture, Mello walked with his shadow in tow- but it was less of an actual shadow and more of Misa flanking him with wild outbursts grating on his nerves and echoing in his eardrums.
With his snark running low, Mello had enough of the female's behavior and was about to call her out on it, ready to explode. And that's exactly what he did. "MISA, YOU FUCKING BITCH! Teammates or not, I'm this close(!)" he gestured, showing with his finger and thumb and the tiniest space between, "I'm this close to cleaning your clock!"
"...but, Misa doesn't have a clock. Did Mello get her a clock?!" She squealed in delight and Mello palmed his forehead in a show of annoyance.
"Misa, go play. Or run with something sharp. Just... leave before I slap the bitch out of you." As he was yelling at his tag-along, he failed to keep tabs of his surroundings and ended up tripping over an ill-placed box in a small room filled with plastic-covered furniture -the kind you might see in a house up for auction after the previous resident died of old age. Hitting the floor with a thud and cursing - "fucking hell"- Mello glared at the box. Sitting up, he kicked the box away from him, expending a small portion of his anger.
Curious, Misa knelt beside the box -"It's a shoebox! Misa wonders if it has heels!"- and plucked the lid off, pouting when she saw the contents. "Ew, Mello, you can have it."
"Misa, I don't want fucking shoes! I want-" And he stopped, staring at the shiny metal that greeted his vision, artificial light reflecting off its surface. Wide-eyed, speechless, and more excited than he should have been, he reached for the weapon and shuddered at the feel of it when his fingers curled around it. Feeling the chill of metal and the weight of destruction in his grasp, he held a breath and brought it close for further inspection. He ran his fingers along the surface in way that mirrored worship. "I didn't think... it would be... so easy to find a..." and his words halted again as he popped open the chamber and found it completely empty, devoid of a single bullet. "FUCKING HELL!" He swore and chucked the weapon aside. Fuming. "A gun without bullets is about as useful as a fucking paperweight!"
...
Mikami slipped a pen in his pocket and held tight to a hammer he'd found. By his logic, knives were messy, and while he knew that guns were -somewhere- available, he hardly felt like searching for something that might not even be loaded -implied with the Rules specifically saying low ammunition. So, he figured he'd find regular everyday objects and make use of them. He'd found rope, a pen, a hammer, and a first-aid kit... along with a book he could use to entertain himself if and when applicable in a Safe Zone.
Gratified, for the most part, he continued to search for anything of value, eventually finding himself stepping onto the tiles of the kitchen floor.
What he saw next caused him to drop his hoard.
Miss Takada's body, wide eyed and bathing in a dark red lake. Looking closer, the way her hair was pushed back, a scar from a facelift was visible, though that hardly compared to the horror of her oozing left wrist: the hand, no longer topped with the hi-tech bracelet, just barely attached to her body. The stench of decay had not yet set in, but the foul seed of death was reeking of fruition.
The way the knife protruded, it could have been an accident, or suicide, or even... murder. Any three of the scenarios were a possibility, Mikami thought, looking her over and covering his nose and mouth with his hand to lessen the stench and urge to vomit.
Reclaiming his hoard, he stepped over the death-mess and claimed a bag, placing his spoils inside for convenience. Then, sparing her one last look, Mikami shook his head and made his exit.
As much as it sickened him, people were going to die. He couldn't save everyone, and he knew it would be foolish to try. A part of him ached for the injustice, but a larger part knew that sometimes, for the good of others, it was a necessity.
His own life's experience had warped altered his previously naive morals, as could be expected of a man like himself, brought up by more tragedy than naught.
He was a lawyer, and while his intent was to protect the innocent and do good for others, sometimes, he got a guilty defendant... but he still did his job, won the case, released another criminal. It wasn't meant to be that way, but there were always justifications.
Sometimes he lost sleep over it, but more often than not, he had himself a scotch, took a dose of NyQuil, and slept like a baby. A wealthy and corrupt child with a dying sense of self righteousness.
He took it a day at a time, one case at a time, one trial and consequence over another. After a particularly disgusting criminal -a foul mouthed rapist with more blood under his fingernails than a rat has in its entire body- after said criminal was slapped with a bit of community service but otherwise released and free to roam, the whole matter was tucked away. A shelf memory at work. With the following day, the next case, it was like the previous one didn't matter. It was about as real as a false memory from the second grade -the one others talk about, and it almost seems real, but it's as questionable as a fat man delivering presents on Christmas, squeezing down tiny chimneys just to give children toys.
Every day, every holiday, every event, just one more memory to add and knock another off the shelf. As far as Mikami was concerned, he didn't have a childhood, and he was looking forward to the destruction of his teen years and early adulthood. He beckoned each new day to put his past out of his own misery.
As far as Mikami was concerned, when he made it out of this 3-day situation, he planned to go on as if nothing had happened.
Just another fading memory, another case he didn't want to dream about. Another glass of scotch. Another dose of NyQuil. Another nice cleansing nap to wash away and baptize the hell from his tarnished life.
There was no great war, no destruction of morale.
He was not a victim.
And denial is truly the best way to self-medicate.
...
All on his lonesome, the albino sat at a desk in what might have been a home office in its prime. Parchment in front of him and a quill pen in hand, he dipped for ink and drew up a note:
To whom it may concern,
If you are reading this rather than hearing it from my own mouth, I am dead.
I am writing in regards to what has been labeled The HLiS-C murder case... and while I have studied it extensively, never have I been closer to solving it than now, when I have become the sacrificial subject of someone else's amusement.
It appears that cameras and bugs are planted in various locations, and from afar, our captor watches our every move.
Whether this is simply a game or a test of human will, I've yet to understand.
Though one thing is certain.
People are going to die.
I am writing this so that, in the event that I do not make it out alive, someone can read this and know what happened. Because, if this case goes unsolved, it will likely happen again.
An even number of people are locked in together, split into teams, and told to kill each other within three days. But there's more to it than that. Though my actions have been slight, I have been conducting an experiment of sorts. Always being in the camera's view, I have done various little tasks, some to entertain myself, and some to guage the opinion of the viewer.
The device on my wrist -everyone seems to have one- it gets intensely hot (to the point of causing severe discomfort) when I do something that is not appreciated by whom I suppose is my captor.
-Things that cause the device to heat up:
Stating that I refuse physical conflict.
Insulting the childish nature of the situation at hand: the cliche setup.
Removing a camera/bug.
Telling a fellow 'occupant' about the cameras. (I mentioned it in passing to Mikami, who simply complained about 'faulty wiring.')
-While those are the things I know to have caused the device to heat up, I have no doubt that it is a way for someone to keep some form of control over what we do. I imagine that it could be a way to reprimand someone who breaks the Rules.
There is no way of knowing how this is going to end, but I doubt it will end well.
A strange thing worth noting is, while we've been here and conscious for hours (and possibly unconscious for longer), the sun has yet to rise.
I have to wonder if is really still dark, or if my perception of time has already deteriorated.
-N
Signing the bottom of the parchment and putting it in a desk drawer, Near got up and slowly left the room, his soft sock-clad feet padding the floors.
Upon spotting Mikami, he offered a polite greeting of "Hello, Teru Mikami."
Mikami nodded in a show of acknowledgement before stating: "I found Miss Takada's body."
"...she's dead," Near summarized bluntly, easily catching the meaning.
Another nod came from Mikami. "I've gathered a few things," he gestured to the bag he carried. "I was looking for Light... and Matt, and you... - our teammates. I was thinking that it would be best to meet up in a Safe Zone and rest, then accomplish something as a team tomorrow."
"Yes, that might be a good idea," Near said carefully, eying Mikami and searching for something that wasn't quite there.
Without any further word exchange, the two began their search for Light Yagami, Mikami in the lead and Near trailing a few steps behind.
Their search came to an end when the brunette found them first, briskly walking over and waving casually. "Should we meet up in a Safe Room? I just checked, and the master bedroom is spacious and empty."
"What about our fourth teammate?" Mikami asked, though the sincerity of his concern was questionable at best.
"I believe his name was Matt," Near stated, tone bored.
Light shook his head. "I haven't seen him since... -It's been a while. I just hope he's okay." Light's words said one thing, but his eyes spoke volumes of indifference toward the redhead in question.
"I think we should eliminate the other team before doing anything else," Mikami blurted, eyes wide and attention focused on Light, tone reminiscent of a child telling Santa that he'd been a good boy all year and would like a Hot Wheels race track.
Near remained quiet, stepping back and observing the two adults he was supposed to call allies, though he could easily read them. Light: the charming and deceitful snake that would sooner betray than assist. And Mikami: the man who valued foreign validation above personal pride...
It was a recipe for disaster.
All three of them knew it.
And they headed to the master bedroom, entering and closing the door behind them. Light claimed the bed; Mikami claimed a lounge; and Near sat on the floor, his attention suddenly captivated by a puzzle he found stashed under the bed.
...
Mello had gone back and reclaimed the gun he'd initially tossed once he'd located three bullets in an ashtray he'd found in the foyer, though he'd yet to lose the ever-present Misa Amane, much to his disdain.
Deciding to call in a night, the two found themselves in a guest bedroom with Misa hopping onto the bed and coughing when a cloud of dust resulted from the compressed mattress.
"It's dirrrrty! Misa doesn't like the filth!" she whined, but Mello was learning to block out her screeching annoyance.
Having nothing better to do, Mello twirled the gun round his finger, the trigger guard acting as an unbalanced hula hoop; he cursed and sighed in relief when he dropped the weapon and then managed to catch it. Then he plopped down onto a beanbag chair and looked toward the ceiling, silently mapping out little pictures in the textured panels. When that became too boring, he looked toward a window and arched a brow.
"The stars..." he found himself saying. "The fuck..." He got up with a groan and a protest of muscles that longed to relax, and he closed the gap between himself and the window. Like all the other windows, this one was barred from the outside. "Misa," he called over his shoulder, "toss me one of your bitch-heels."
Misa scowled and shook her head.
"Misa, do as I say, or I'll bust your teeth in."
Whining in that horrid voice, she unstrapped and removed her precious footwear before lightly tossing it in Mello's general direction.
The pink shoe hit Mello's thigh and fell to the floor, and Mello picked it up, just barely managing to hold back his building anger. "Fuckin' bitch," he seethed quietly, gripping the shoe tightly and slamming it heel-first into the window. The first hit made an annoying 'thud' against the glass, but the second hit caused it to crack; one more hit caused it to finally break: a small jagged hollow marring the center of a web of fractured lines. Then... "I knew it," he said, voice in awe. "The star cracked with the glass." Dropping the shoe, he pressed his hand to the cold surface and traced the fracture with his fingertips, touching a star that had been painted on.
Misa looked confused and said "That's impossible! Stars are either in the sky or in Hollywood; they can't-"
"Misa," Mello growled, "shut up and let me hear myself think." Turning his attention back to the window, he marveled. "So simple, but so stupid... Stars painted on glass, the windows barred from the outside, and a dark cover over the outer-side of the bars, painted to look like the night sky. It could be in the middle of the afternoon, but it would still look like the late evening... The question is, why?"
Mello had no sooner finished voicing his thoughts when Misa spoke again, shrieking "IT IS OFFICIALLY DAY TWO, ACCORDING TO THE UGLY BRACELET! THAT MEANS WE CAN GO HOME TOMORROW!"
And that was it, the last straw that was barring Mello's hate and rage. His heart elevating and his head pounding, he turned his attention to the blonde female and wailed angry, gun raised and hand shaking: "Fucking idiot! I can't even-"
Bang!
Mello's eyes widened.
A shot had been fired... but not from the blonde's own gun.
...
As far as we know:
Takada is dead.
L and Matt (opposing teams) are together.
Light, Mikami, and Near are together.
And Mello and Misa are together.
-NOW, DAY TWO IS ABOUT TO START.