Fandom: Detective Conan
Bad Guy: Gin
Theme: #9—violin music
Disclaimer: Own Detective Conan, I do not. Own the characters, Gosho Aoyama does. Making money off them, I am not. Borrow and write about them, I merely do. Talk like Yoda, I must.
Summary: When he turned to leave the murder scene, he realized he had an audience.
He first met the man he would eventually come to know as Boss by chance—a twist of fate, a coincidence of timing that by all accounts should have been utterly disastrous. Instead, it became a turn of events that changed his world and put him on the path towards his ultimate destiny.
He killed a man in the park. It wasn’t a difficult task, really. He had come into possession of a gun—a spoil from another altercation in which his opponent hadn’t had time to use the weapon. The small firearm had already claimed his preference as a weapon of choice. It was quick, easy, and made no mess for him.
When he turned to leave the murder scene, he was stunned to realize that he had an audience. A man was standing there, watching him—a very nondescript man, wearing a long black trench coat. Definitely not the kind of person one would notice in a crowd.
How long had this man been standing there? How long had he been watching? Had he seen the killing? That made him a witness, and witnesses were something that could not be afforded. He knew he could be easily picked out in a line-up, having an extremely unique aspect in his fair hair.
He really hadn’t planned on killing a second victim tonight, but it seemed a necessity now. He raised the gun and leveled it at the witness, aiming right for the head.
To his surprise, the man didn’t even flinch. Not so much as the quiver of an eyelash to betray any fear or alarm at the motion. Instead, he simply said, “You don’t want to do that, boy.”
“Do you value your own life?”
Something about the way the man said it gave him pause, and he growled, “Who the hell are you?”
“Someone who is interested in you,” the man said, his voice as smooth as silk. “I am interested in what you can do, what I just saw you do.” He gestured towards the body on the ground with one hand. “You are young, and you show great promise. I would like to see what can be made of you.”
Facing this elegant, well-spoken stranger, he suddenly felt far younger than his eighteen years. It was a new feeling, something he had never experienced before. And he did not like it. In spite of himself and his instincts, he slowly lowered his outstretched arm to his side, the pistol still held tightly in his hand.
“I have a…group,” the man said. His voice was calm, almost a purr, and as casual as one discussing a mundane topic like the weather. He was not acting like a person who had just seen someone killed. “My group engages in certain activities. I think you would find yourself quite at home there.”
“…you want me to work for you.” It was a statement, not a question.
“What’s in it for me?” That was a law of his world: look out for number one.
“You’ll have every need met, I assure you,” the man explained. When had he come closer? “You will be trained, your abilities honed. As you prove yourself to us, your responsibilities will grow. Loyalty and ability are greatly rewarded, while treason is severely punished. We take care of our own, boy.”
The words themselves held little appeal—train? Responsibility? Loyalty? He was no one’s slave. Yet the underlying idea attracted him, somehow—if he proved himself to this man and his group, through a talent he seemed to naturally possess…he could be recognized for it. And somehow, that spoke very deeply to him.
He’d never experienced such a thing. Not truly, anyway—not from actual admiration. From fear, yes.
To be admired…
He realized that the man was walking away, and some instinct told him to follow. The journey was short, and soon they were back at the street, where a sleek black sports car was parked by the curb. The man paused beside the car, then turned back to him, waiting.
“What if I refuse?” the teenager asked, folding his arms.
“You go your way,” the man replied. “I certainly won’t speak of what I’ve seen, and neither will you, if you know what’s good for you.” That last had a harder edge to it, a steely undertone that would have chilled a lesser person.
“…what sort of activities?”
“Ones that I suspect you would find to be highly entertaining, boy. I think they would suit you.”
For a while now, he had been trying to figure out what it was about this man that kept his attention like this. The gun was still in his hand—why had he not used it at the very first? But now…he thought he knew.
There was something in this man’s smile that mirrored his own. There was something in the way the glow of the streetlight reflected off this man’s eyes, making him seem just this side of sanity.
…they were similar. Alike. Was kindred spirits the right phrase?
“…what do I do?” he asked finally.
The man seemed to be expecting this, and withdrew his hand from his pocket to offer a small card. “Come to this address tomorrow at noon. Do not be late. You will begin then. I expect great things from you, boy.”
With that, he walked around and got in the car. As the engine came to life, the sound of classical music came over the speakers. The man smiled. “Vivaldi. I’m quite fond of him.” He looked at him pointedly. “Tomorrow, then.” He pulled away from the curb and drove off.
The teenager looked down at the card in his hand, thinking about what had just happened.
PS. With this, we have reached the halfway point. YAY! The sociopathic trait for this was “seeks out situations where their behavior will be tolerated, condoned, or admired.” Thanks for reading, all! Much love!