Disclaimer: Story will contain graphic, heavily violent scenes (in later chapters), strong language, and adult themes so reader discretion is advised. All characters are property of Quantic Dream and in no way does the author claim any rights to their entities forthwith. Blah blah blah please don't sue.
Chapter II
For as long as he could remember, Norman Jayden had always been alone. His childhood wasn't exactly what one would consider permanent, not like other children and their families who stay situated in one place, planting roots into the community, encapsulating personal bonds that would grow into relationships – like a best friend, a close set of buddies, a crush, maybe even a love interest of some kind. None of those prevailed in his younger years; they were the equivalent to the concept of electricity or even the molecules in air: sure they existed, he understood their concepts, but he couldn't necessarily see them, let alone grasp them tangibly in his hand.
No, to Norman, growing up meant living a life of transience: different house, different city, different faces, all across the United States. This was primarily due in part of his father's career oriented lifestyle, which was to be the future path that Norman would follow: an FBI profiler, the very best in his league. His dad was intelligent, head strong, incredibly ambitious and superhumanly motivated to solve whatever seemingly impossible case was given to him. And because of his cases, and his renowned successes, moving to said designated city after city to solve each case was always mandatory by the bureau, and to an extension, a personal request by his dad.
His dad's other primary attribute, however, the one he excelled at above all else, was his ability to be absent throughout most of Norman's younger years. He was no more real to Norman than the Flying Spaghetti Monster, so he might as well not have been his dad at all. Still, out of principle, and to make things less confusing on him, Norman simply called him by "dad" anyway, more so like an ineffectual moniker such as "grocery clerk" or "barista" than a designation to a personal bond, if there was even such a connection to begin with.
There were certainly times when his dad would make his grand appearance, Norman considered these more like satellite moments than anything really: a predictable, orbiting, linear event in his younger years when his part fictional, part non-fictional dad-figure would somehow make his rounds to the solar system of his life and simply be present in manifest for an iota. So what was Norman's earliest memory of his birthday and his dad? It was at age five, somewhere in a pre-furnished rental condo at the eastern coast of the United States. His dad arrived at 12:30 PM, and due to his overtly punctual nature, right down to the precise second.
Norman's mom loved these moments; she was looking more forward to them than Norman was - so much so in fact that she always looked pristinely manicured on those particular days, with her gaudy pink polyester dress, her over use of facial powder and blush, and a brunette up-do shaped like some bizarre outer space helmet. She looked more like a quixotic, ornamental mannequin than something resembling a mother, let alone a human being.
And when 12:30 PM hit right on the dot, the conveyor belt of events would begin for those next few precious minutes in celebration of Norman's day of birth.
It began with the door opening wide, almost violently so out of frustration, banging against the wall perpendicular to it, as if to herald his dad's majestic arrival. Then his mom, who had been standing at the entry way for about five minutes prior, gave his dad a wide, plastic smile. She approached him, and shared a brief kiss that had as much gesticulation as gelatin slapping against a piece of cellophane. And as instructed, Norman had been sitting at the dining table, in front of his vanilla birthday cake mottled with rainbow sprinkles, candle already lit, also about five minutes prior, stewing in his own anticipation and sweat to see the ephemeral figure that was his dad. He dangled his legs nervously, not even long enough to touch the ground.
And when his parents broke away from their sloppy lip suction, they were already singing happy birthday in midstride, chorused in a way that sounded more animatronic and hurried than affectionate. By the time they reached him, they were already at the final stanza of the song.
"Happy birthday dear Norman, happy birthday-"
And as rehearsed ten minutes prior, coached by his dolled up mother, he timed an intake of breath, then expelled it to extinguish the candle.
"-to you!" his parents sang out, finally.
Then Norman looked up to his parents. First, to his mom, only because she made him less anxious, still smiling as hard as she was when his dad arrived, staring back at young Norman expectantly with her viridian eyes, the attractive physical trait that he and her shared. And then with a dry gulp, he looked up to his father, seeing perhaps more like a time vortex into the future, the man he will one day become in physical manifestation: the edged face, heavy eyes and the etched look of fatigue and sleepless nights. But despite that, his dad could pull off a subtle but telling smirk, a signature style that served as the other identifier to complete the equation: "dad" plus "smirk" equals Norman Jayden's father.
He figured that the smirk was the only symbol of affection he would ever receive from his dad, so he cherished it. And Norman would stare secretly into mirrors on lonely childhood nights, the ones where he needed the presence of a father the most, and try to duplicate his smirk; and maybe, just maybe, the semblance of his father would reveal himself on that smooth, reflected surface, if only for a brief and ghostly moment. He would later carry this feature to his adult years, especially whenever Norman would say something ironic (like that time when he ironically told Carter how he thought he was a tough street cop who'd been through the mill).
Beyond that smirk that etched itself deeply into young Norman Jayden's mind, there was finally the birthday present to complete the series of sequential events. The same gift was always given to him year after year - predictable in all its triteness, like the monotony of marching drills, wherein one foot goes down, the obvious and logical conclusion is that the other must follow. It first starts with his dad lifting a large, rectangular gift wrapped present, too professional to be done by his own hand, and gives it to Norman by sliding it across the table. Then young Norman picked it up, studied the cartoon bears with colored cone hats over the wrapper, and tore across the surface in one swift motion, then another, until the gift was laid naked and bare for his curious eyes to witness.
"Oh it's a book Norman, how lovely!" chirped his mother as she read the cover. "It's called…an Introduction to Behavioral Evidence Analysis?"
His mother gave his dad a wry stare as if to say, 'A psychology book? Really? Really now?'
His dad just nods in reply, and then delivered his signature smirk.
"He's going to be like his dad one day," he would say. "The boy's a genius, I tell you."
Since Norman hadn't been to any other child's birthday party before his own, he wasn't sure if a present like this was the norm, or even necessarily kosher. To be quite honest, he was expecting something more recreational, like a toy being the most obvious conclusion. Hell, even a stick of Bazooka Joe bubble gum would have been marginally acceptable. It was all very vexing to Norman to say the least, but at least his father had made some effort, even if it did seem rather insubstantial. And so before Norman could even turn from staring at the cover of his book to say his thanks to his dad out of courtesy, his mother was already closing the front door, as his father exited his life for another year.
Then he stared at his mother expectantly, hesitant and uncertain, as she stood solidly against the closed door with a hand gripping the knob. While his father was present mostly by idea, descending to Earth once a year for a few brief moments of mortal divinity, his mother was a constant presence in Norman's life. The dad was just one part of the void, and his mother the other half; and together they created the black hole nebula that pulled him into their emptiness. Because he soon came to understand very quickly that there was something not quite right with his mother, even if he himself had not seen other children and their own moms. Whether it was a combination of instincts or his intuition emerging to one day become the genius profiler he would be, both reasons were completely inconsequential. This was because he was not sure which mother was going to appear right now.
True, he had only one biological mother, but the mind of hers contained several moms, each one a fractional portion of a total whole, and neither one holding true dominance over any other – divided and leaderless in her head, unstable. And as Norman stared at his mother, waiting anxiously and expectantly, would she be nurturing, would she be fun-loving, or would she be…?
She let out a sigh, absent of any identifiable emotion, and then looked at young Norman, stared with deliberation. Then she started advancing, her gait hastened with a sense of purpose, and then stopped next to his seat, towering over him ominously.
Young Norman blinked, let in another dry gulp, and had a mixture of both relief and worry as she cupped his chin gently in her hand to examine him, studying him as if he were some sort of plaything. Then she leaned forward, pressed her lips on his forehead for a quick kiss, and the tense muscles in his body began to relax. And when Young Norman's guard was at its lowest, when his quivering frame started to slouch and sink on his chair, he heard his mother speak.
"Fuckin' ASSHOLE!" she cried, in a voice several octaves far too low, masculine and furious.
Norman's eyes shot open as he jolted awake from his brief coma, the residual side effects of Triptocaine still having a full grip on his body as he lay paralyzed on a medical dolly, surrounded by white washed walls and the smell of antiseptics; in his muddled state, he surmised that he was back as grown-up Norman, and that he was in a hospital, as he heard the hurried steps against linoleum of personnel scattering about, with some of them yelling archaic medical orders to each other. And to his terrible dismay, Carter Blake loomed over him once again, much like earlier after being resuscitated from death in the motel room, and similarly like the vision of his mother on his earliest recalled birthday celebration. The lieutenant's coarse fingers pinched Norman's chin, moving his head side to side in examination.
"You awake, you fuckin' asshole?" Carter grumbled irritably over him. "Can you hear me? Blink once if you can."
Norman Jayden closed his eyes, wishing they would stay closed, but out of reflex from fear of seeing his mom again vividly in his Triptocaine poisoned haze, not wanting to relive a childhood moment where she became the "bad mom," he opened his eyes. And in some sick, demented sort of way, he was somewhat glad for his focus to be clear enough to see Carter, even if he did despise him so. But once he blinked to Carter that he was conscious enough to understand him, his face was thrown harshly to the side, staring limply to the wall next to him, before his head was forcefully righted upward by the lieutenant.
"I brought your sorry ass to Mercy Hospital to flush the Tripto outta your system. But we came at the same time of 28 victims in a freeway car pileup, so the scrub suits got their hands full, and you're at the bottom of their triage," Carter explained slowly, and somewhat haughty, as if he were speaking to a retard.
But in most respects, Carter viewed Norman just the same anyway, what with his overdose stint earlier in that shitty dive which could barely be called a roach motel, surrounded by phials of Triptocaine, laying completely dead on the ground, until he literally punched the life right back into him (after belting out his most incensed f-bomb to date). Then he had to haul his unconscious ass out of the room and towards the car, dragging him into the passenger side, cursing out a slew of obscenities against Norman that would make even an Alzheimer's patient remember, and drove to Mercy Hospital, running through red lights and almost recklessly tailgating another car. Luckily, with his status as a cop, he could abuse the police siren all the live long day, giving him complete immunity to the law he so crookedly served.
And now here they were at a fully frenzied hospital, with its staff treating several patients simultaneously that had been bludgeoned by metal and masticated brutally by twisted steel from their chain of vehicular accidents. Carter had honestly just wanted to dump him and leave immediately once Norman had been in the care of a medical professional, but with nobody able to tend to him urgently, his fate would be uncertain. And he just saved the agent's goddamn life, and wasn't about to lose his victory just because some MD asshats couldn't get to Norman in time. No, with Carter being stubborn as he was, and still not wanting to lose against the game of Death that was still very much being played, he would make sure to see this through the end – that Norman Jayden would survive and live. Lieutenant Carter Blake can't stand to lose and won't lose ever again, not this time, not like in his fractured past.
"Fucking Norman," Carter thought bitterly, making him relive that day, replicating it in the present.
The only evident difference between that time of his fractured past and the present moment was that, first, the agent was alive, and second, Norman Jayden was no friend to Carter Blake, at least for now. A string of events will soon follow that would start deviating from that standard. At this junction, however, they were merely antagonists, with Carter saving Norman for completely selfish reasons, or so the lieutenant thought anyway.
But for now, Norman was completely paralyzed, a symptom of the body absorbing far too much Tripto. Carter wasn't sure if this could metastasize into a worse condition (besides death of course), but who was he to not shy away from such an opportune moment? A moment where his opposition lay so helpless, with mind divorced from a wilted body.
The lieutenant looked down at Norman, leaned in very close to his face with a devilish smile, all reason cast aside as sinister intent claimed him, and said, "I can do whatever I want with you right now, couldn't I?"
How could Norman respond to this but with a helpless blink? Without full control of his body, the agent was merely the viewer in his own head, like watching events unfold in front of a projection screen of an empty theater, where he was the only member at its audience. In his mind, he was yelling, something and anything to will his body out of its incapacitating torpor. But to his horror, Norman could only watch helpless as Carter would enact his torment onto him, as a punishment for all the times the agent rallied against the several wrongdoings of the lieutenant during the Origami Killer case.
"If I spat a loogie in your mouth right now, would you scream?" Carter said in sadistic delight through grated teeth. "Would you tell me how fucking wrong I am, just like those times in the Origami Killer case, huh?"
He shook Norman's head from side to side by the chin for a reaction, only to limply sway without response. Carter chuckled; oh this was all too good. Norman had called him a psychopath once, well let him be king! The great King Carter Blake, master of psychopaths, their patron saint! Their past working relationship between the two was anything but pleasant anyway – always turbulent and tumultuous, escalating into full out spite, fighting wherever and whenever they went; and even continuing beyond the grim finality of the Origami Killer case, to face the consequences of both their greatest failures.
"C'mon you pussy, tell me I'm wrong, say it, I wanna hear it!" the lieutenant spat, his voice rising, almost livid (but to Norman's hazy profiler mind, Carter's voice seemed strangely urgent and despondent).
And Carter continued, shaking Norman by the collar, yelling, "Tell me I was wrong, tell me it was my fault, tell me that I let Shaun Mars die!"
He stared hard into Norman's eyes for a few moments, knowing that even without bodily control his mind was somewhere back there. And between them they played this terrible dance, as they navigated about in their insane game of unresolved issues and past differences, with the ring as a giant origami and the taboo stain in the absolute center they avoided was Shaun Mars. And when Norman could not answer, when Carter thought he won this little alpha male posturing skirmish, with pride settling in a form of an indignant chuckle, Norman blinked twice.
And that was all it took to make the lieutenant pissed off, his blood pressure spiking, abruptly silencing his chortle. Carter was beyond caring if those blinks meant "yes" or "no" to his question which he intended to be rhetorical (or so he thought at least on the conscious level). Those two blinks were only simple acts, but such quiet minimalism spoke astronomical volumes. They were the symbol of Norman's continual defiance against the lieutenant in the face of such dire circumstances: drug overdosed and completely paralyzed, yet the Agent still raged against him, butted heads, fought. He may spit down his throat, do the very worst to him, but he would be Norman Jayden, not as the FBI agent, the failure who couldn't save Shaun Mars, but as a man who wouldn't be subjugated by the likes of Carter Blake.
'Fucking Norman, an annoying twat even to the bitter end,' thought Carter.
So out of contempt, Carter did what he claimed he would do without resignation: forced Norman's mouth open harshly, snorted in a gross amount of thick snot, and rumbled his inner passageways to bring out some phlegm to the edge of his throat. He could just imagine it now, with Norman horrified, no longer defiant but dominated by his whims and desires, to be no greater than a kabana boy gratifying his needs, in the most aggressive manner possible. Carter thought that maybe he should just spit into those fucking insolent eyes instead. Those same eyes that still defied him, that still blinked.
And then suddenly, Norman's eyes rolled to the back of his head as his body began to convulse on the medical dolly, a layer of froth bubbling out of his mouth. Carter was aghast, pulling his hand away in shock and almost choking on his own phlegm in the process. It was then that the lieutenant began to cry out in a panic.
"Shit, somebody help! He's having a seizure!"
The Thin Man found out that Scott Shelby had developed a new alias as "Sam Douglas" in order to hide himself from any possible recognition. No doubt after the end of the Origami Case, Madison Paige had informed the authorities of her findings, as she was the only person in the circle of events to have gotten close enough to unravel his identity and almost unfurl the latest killing. She was so very close, if only she had cracked the password to Scott's laptop, which would have lead her to saving Shaun Mars. Too bad, now she would have to live with her own personal demons, tormenting her, especially after the news of Ethan Mars committing suicide by blowing his brains out in front of his son's grave.
But it was also no thanks to Madison Paige that forced Scott into hiding, which might have been the precursor to bring about the Origami Killer's spark of humanity summoned by his own guilt and self loathing. Still, the Thin Man was thankful anyway, because without the worry of authorities, with Scott Shelby using his resources to masterfully evade the police, the Thin Man could execute his plan unfettered - watching Scott Shelby from afar, being a creeping shadow that slinked so close, examining his continued existence unapologetically.
The Thin Man saw that, while Scott had shaved his head bald to change his appearance, the biggest alteration of all was how much weight the former detective had lost. Before finding him, he had known Scott to be a man of large stature, fearful and indomitable, now he was literally half that size, weak and pitiable. Was this the guilt eating at him? Some form of forced starvation or fasting to cleanse an essence deeper than the body, the soul? Was this another Scott Shelby emerging to give him a visage of a new form, a new shape, something resembling a human? It would be a surprise to an ordinary passerby, had they known Scott Shelby prior, how much he was metamorphosing, almost unrecognizable.
But the Thin Man knew the moment he saw him in that diner at midnight, solemnly drinking coffee alone in his booth. He knew it was Scott Shelby, because the darkness in the Thin Man could hear Scott's darkness crying back, mewling out a whimper for help, to save it, to resurrect it. It was dying, the light of redemption snuffing it out under its thumb.
'There, there little darkness, no need to cry any more, no need to fear, the Thin Man will come to save you little darkness, nurture you, spin you in its web, and then devour you.'
First, the Thin Man had to start with a plan, start sleuthing with a question, and then work his way from there. What is it that Scott Shelby desired the most?
The answer wasn't readily evident through the surface of the Origami Killer's murders, but the modus operandi was embedded deep within the events that nobody on the outside saw, that only those within his intimate trap could witness. His focus on the whole sordid events was never on Shaun Mars, he was just the pawn, and the elaborate game of chess devised by the Scott Shelby had a much greater scope than that. Madison Paige was just the Queen, Norman Jayden was the Knight, and Carter Blake the Rook, with the King as their centerpiece: Ethan Mars. He was a great man no doubt, self sacrificing despite being extremely self deprecating, but most of all, profoundly human and loving – the perfect father. And Thin Man's plan could have worked so well if Ethan Mars was around to herald the resurrection of the Origami Killer, but alas he had killed himself. The King had been resigned.
Now the Thin Man would have to find a different man, a different King, a father, someone just as self sacrificing as Ethan Mars, willing to go at all odds to save their only child. And then, the Thin Man suddenly came to a most astounding and wonderful conclusion. He remembered earlier, during one of his many days of tracking the Origami Killer, when he visited a convenience store owned by man named Hassan, the father of Reza, a child victim of Scott Shelby.
Yes, yes! He remembered, because he was trying to trail Scott Shelby after the Origami Case, and kindly inquired about his visit, using the personal and almost hypnotic charismatic majesty the Thin Man knew he had, one of his quiet strengths and his secret powers. He could convince anyone to say just about anything he asked.
"Of course I remember Scott Shelby, he saved my life from a robber," said Hassan when the Thin Man asked him about that time meeting the detective.
"Tell me about the robber," the Thin Man said in a serpentine tone, hypnotic.
"Oh him, Andrew Barker, he was a troubled man apparently, from what I learned through neighborhood shop gossip-" Hassan sighed sorrowfully "-he was a father, much like myself…And even if he had threatened me with violence, that I should hate the man for it, I can empathize and feel sorry because he did so for the sake of his daughter Jessica."
Andrew Barker wasn't a father to a son, the jigsaw piece of this puzzle didn't quite fit precisely, but he would have to do. And as the Thin Man watched from afar, studying Scott Shelby sitting pathetically by his lonesome in a diner booth over a cup of now cold coffee, he knew what must be done. Andrew Barker will be the father Scott will want to test, the delectable meat that dangles above the little shadow within Scott Shelby, as it cries out to consume a victim savagely from the pit, knowing that its terrible hunger needs to be sated. Much like the same, cruel hunger of the Thin Man's darkness, the void in his soul's core that could never be satisfied.
Author's Note: Thank you for reading! All comments and constructive criticisms are always welcome. And a big thank for those that have already made an awesome review to my first chapter! :D