Bullet With Butterfly Wings
Chapter two: 'Sent to Drain'
This is a Death Note Parallel reality. A 'What If' senario, if you will. It's either a Mystery/Drama or a Horror/Romance...
But it was in Japan that the butterfly would land again.
-Some 15 years later-
The hotel room was conservative but comfortable, traditional posh furniture and paintings of no particular cost, but with an air of sophistication. It was clearly meant for the wealthy, but not ostentatious. It was perfectly suited to its current occupant.
"What's new on the list, James?" called the young man from his armchair, crossing his khaki-clad legs.
"Something that might interest you, sir," replied his butler, carrying in the newspaper.
"Oh really? If it's that lawyer with the moustache," the brunette raised a brow, "I already told him I'm not interested in the abduction. The police have things covered."
"No, no, none of that rubbish," the elder man assured him.
James handed the paper to his employer, who sat sipping tea from a china cup. Many a clever man had been thrown for a loop by the incongruity of that scene; a purebred Japanese man sipping Earl Grey Tea and chatting away in an English country drawl. Confusion is never to be dismissed as a psychological weapon.
"Well then, what have you got for me?" he inquired politely, not expecting much. He took far fewer cases now that he could pick ones which interested him.
"Sir, do you remember that murder case in eastern France, about ten years ago? The one with the peculiar carvings?"
"…Yes, I do." Answered the detective.
The year that he himself had turned seven, there had been a particular news story that reached his ears. Taking and interest in world affairs (already dreaming of a future in detective work), he'd begun to read major newspapers from the near-by countries of Europe. Around the same time he began his new hobby, a curious story had popped up in the headlines of France. A couple killed in their own home, house burned down and bodies desecrated, but not burned themselves. Someone had wanted those corpses found.
Murder was far from uncommon in big cities, but in this case it was certainly strange enough to merit its own article—especially on a slow news week.
The two were lower middle class citizens with no criminal record to speak of, not an ink drop on their papers, and a foster-son to boot. Perfectly normal people living law abiding lives. But one summer's day, unexpected as a rainstorm in the Sahara, firemen were called out to an emergency alarm in their suburban-style neighborhood. There, in front of the burning wreckage, lay the bodies of Claude and Rosetta Loire—battered, bruised and precisely mutilated.
The news reported them as having 'J' cut out of their very flesh in a strange script, while along their arms ran 'iniuria' in a simpler font. Their son's body was lost in the fire and wreckage, the flames hot enough to destroy most evidence and the rubble too dangerous to investigate. But maybe that was for the best.
The world wasn't ready to see that sort of damage inflicted on a child.
The two men grimaced in unison, remembering the damage. There was a single relief in the whole incident: those strange wounds were probably inflicted after death.
"I remember," repeated the younger man, slightly disturbed. Beyond the human element, since years of detective work had desensitized him to it, he greatly disliked fire.
"Well," the manservant calmly seated himself on the adjacent couch, "It would seem that he's resurfaced, sir."
"That or a copycat," murmured the young oriental man, zeroing in on the Japanese headlines.
"Spot late for a copycat, don't you think?" the older gentleman poured himself some tea.
"You can't rule out the possibility, James."
"Quite so," he nodded.
"Still," the detective went on, "Japan is far from France, in distance and mentality. The chances of a repeat murderer are indeed high."
He glanced down again and skimmed the details, noting family names and locations for potential research.
"Six previous victims?!" he exclaimed with surprise. "Why hasn't this come to me before?"
"A good number of reasons, sir. Firstly, we've been largely ignoring Asia since the Celebrity case last year. Secondly, the killings are not limited to one country. On the contrary, two victims were from China and another couple from a large city, the kind where two papers aren't enough for all the murder going on. The fact that those bodies were found a week late doesn't help either."
The old man looked anywhere but at the paper. James had an embarrassing superstition concerning news articles and cases—one that, as an Englishman, he wouldn't confess to under torture.
"What about the arson?" the Japanese youth wondered, looking up.
"None sir. Tad strange too, and none of the children hurt either."
His employer raised an eyebrow; an invitation to continue.
"All victims were parents, a couple with adoptees. All fairly normal people, as far as I can see. But it's the carving that really bungle me."
"'Iniuria'," mused the teen, raking a hand through his died brown hair.
"Injustice," finished his companion. "A villain who understands his own villainy, perhaps?"
"Or," guessed the young man, "A villain who fancies himself Justice?"
He picked up the paper again, a rare, sincere grin spreading across his features. An assistant once told him that at times like these, he resembled a wolf: majestic and beautiful one moment, ripping your throat out for dinner the next.
"James, my good man, it's time to make a call."
---
"Lyle!" a high-pitched voice shrieked.
The auburn-haired teen allowed himself a second of wide-eyed shock, before steeling himself to the impending horror. Too fast for his guards to catch, a squealing blond time bomb flew through the door and slammed straight into him at an inhuman speed, throwing the both of them to the floor in a heap.
"Misa," he winced, disentangling himself from her boa-constrictor hold, "What a… surprise…"
Always the gentleman, he stood, brushed himself off and pulled the girl too her feet. Giggling like a stoned high-school student, she threw her fishnet-clad arms around him.
"Lyle! I'm so glad I found you! I've been emailing you for days, but I never get a response. You must be reeeally busy!" she said, rambling in a strongly accented English.
"Yes. I, ah…." He glanced around the room, searching for an escape, "...took a new case in Japan, so I've been preparing things for departure."
"Japan!?" the woman's eyes sparkled, "You haven't been there since we met! Oh, this will be fantastic! I'll show you all the coolest places and introduce you to my friends, and we can even go on a date…" she sighed happily.
"Misa," he reprimanded, "I'm going purely for business. There won't be time for dates."
Lyle pried her off himself carefully for the second time, and sat them both down on the sofa. James shuffled into the room inconspicuously, angling for an earful of the conversation.
"And I know you want me to be a good boyfriend, but I'm just too busy right now." She usually bought that excuse, "I've got a better world to create and justice to defend."
"Oh Lyle," she groaned, propping her knee-high 'monster' boots on the coffee table, "You know I love your dedication, and I'm totally behind you all the way, but when are you gonna have time for us?"
"Soon, Misa," he promised, making a disgusted noise in his head.
The detective had thought long and hard about the situation; he'd thought of countless scenarios where he'd finally be able to break it off with his self-proclaimed girlfriend. The blonde was a perfect example of an air-headed professional model, a la Zoolander (not that she'd understand the reference, being one-hundred percent Japanese), and decidedly gaga over him. The combination resulted in the same ending no matter which plan he devised:
She couldn't take the hint.
Even a straight out: "We're breaking up" was met with a cheerful "You need time to yourself? Okay, I'll call you in a week!"
Lyle disliked messing with emotions, but the girl left him little choice. And in her defense, she wasn't always such a ditz. Not to mention her excellent connections and talents, which she so generously shared with him. He could only hope that one day she'd get tired of waiting and find a new man to latch onto..
"Alright boyfriend, if you say so. I'll see you in Japan, okay? Don't call me, I'll call you! Love you!" she called over her shoulder, rushing past the still dazed bodyguards.
"In like tsunami, out like a whirlwind, eh sir?" chuckled the manservant.
"Agh…" groaned the detective. "Why did I ever approach her in the first place?"
"The celebrity murder case last year required an inside view," he replied quite seriously, "And miss Amane was more than willing to assist."
Lyle smiled at the memory of that trial. Victory was indeed sweet, and his ruthless performance had struck fear into the hearts of criminals worldwide. Unlike his teachers, this detective relied heavily on his charisma and acting skill for all aspects of the job. Disguises were used profusely—something that Misa Amane had proved invaluable with--a true costuming genius.
Thoughts of her masking abilities brought him full circle to the night that she appeared on his hotel room door, offering to help with the case—among other things…
"James," he started, "How does she keep finding my hotel?"
--0--
Darkness spread over the house as the man rose unsteadily to his feet. His face was impassive, and for all his beating heart, he was as lifeless as the corpses laid out in front of him.
Careful not to touch a drop of blood, the man tossed his knife into their sink and turned on the water, knob twisted to scalding hot.
"Not long now," he mused in a dull conversational tone, "He will get the message soon, hmm Shinigami-san?"
"Won't that be interesting…" chuckled the shadow.
And the moon pouring through the kitchen window lit them both an eerie cobalt blue.