Candyland (candyfics) wrote in 30_evil_deeds,
Candyland
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30_evil_deeds

Socio: Broken (Detective Conan, Gin, #13)

Title: Socio: Broken
Author: Candyland
Fandom: Detective Conan
Bad Guy: Gin
Theme: #13—shards of glass, glittering like diamonds
Rating: PG
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: Even though he said the words, he was not sorry.



He has always been different from other people. Even as a child he was aware that he did not react to things the same way other people did.

When he was seven, he broke a vase. It was genuinely an accident—he bumped into the table it was sitting on; it wobbled, then tipped over sideways and crashed to the floor where it shattered into many, many pieces.

Judging by the reaction, it was either very important or very expensive. The adults ran around in a panic. He was scolded for his clumsiness and made to apologize for what he had done. He even said the words “I’m sorry.”

But he wasn’t sorry. Or rather, he didn’t think he was. He couldn’t remember ever feeling an emotion that he would describe as sorrow. So he couldn’t truly say if he was sorry or not. But he was almost one hundred percent sure that he wasn’t, and the apology was nothing more than two empty words.

Instead…he was fascinated. He was intrigued by the way the vase spun as it fell, how it hit the floor, how it seemed to disintegrate when it hit the floor, how it dissolved into all those pieces when it broke, how some pieces were big and others were tiny and miniscule, how the shards were scattered on the floor in a sort of pattern, how they sparkled in the overhead light…

It was intriguing.

He stooped and picked up one of the larger pieces…and gasped when the sharp edge cut into his fingers. He dropped the shard; it fractured into even smaller pieces when it hit the floor again. And blood ran down two of his fingers, dripping across his palm in thick, dark red lines. The shard that had cut him was tinged pink.

He was scolded again, this time for his carelessness, and the broken shards of glass were swept away.

But it was so interesting to him that something could be so fragile and break so easily, yet hurt him like that. And, he noted as the broken glass vanished from sight, that where his blood had fallen, the glass no longer sparkled; it had become dull.

The pieces of the broken vase were unceremoniously thrown away. How stupid, he initially thought, to make such a big deal out of something and to get so upset over it…and then to simply toss it in a garbage can and forget about it like it were nothing. But what he gleaned from this experience was a different viewpoint on things: this vase was reportedly so valuable to them, yet it broke so easily, and was then discarded. Therefore, when something was broken, it became useless—he figured this to be regardless of circumstances. And when something was useless, it was to be gotten rid of and forgotten.

An intriguing philosophy.

And still he was not sorry.

-o-


Ten years later, he again destroyed something irreplaceable, and infinitely more precious. And again, it was not quite intentional, but it changed his perspective.

He had fallen in with some different people as he’d grown up. He heard teachers and other adults refer to all of them as being a “bad crowd,” but he really didn’t care too much about what Those People thought. Truthfully, he didn’t care too much for these alleged friends of his either. They weren’t really friends so much as simply people to be around. They emulated and imitated each other, choosing dark colors to wear and growing their hair long, letting it be as wild as they were.

But the group he was a part of wasn’t the only one of its kind. And one drizzly night, he found himself in a fight with someone from another gang. The offense was a trumped-up charge against him about him being in this other guy’s way. But he knew that it was really nothing of the sort; this guy—a punk kid, easily a few years his junior—just wanted to pick a fight with someone, and he was just the first suitable prospect to cross his path.

It was a ruthless brawl, acted out in an alleyway. At first it was just fought with punches and kicks, as was relatively par for this particular course. But soon enough he saw the glimmer of steel in the dim light.

One of his “friends” had shown him the proper way to wield a switchblade knife. Hold it like so in the hand, and move the wrist like so to ready the blade. And always jab upward, aiming for the gut or lower chest. A downward thrust might put a faster end to things, but it could also be redirected fairly easily by a hard push to the wrist, leaving the wielder open and vulnerable to retaliation. Underhand to the gut first, then go for a finishing strike if necessary.

That “friend” had also given him a knife of his own. He saw value in it immediately, and carried it on him at all times. He caught his opponent’s wrist and held it long enough to fish his own weapon from his pocket. Press the button, flick the wrist, and jab UP…

The other guy jerked and froze. His knife fell from his hand and clattered to the ground by their feet.

On some impulse, he pulled the knife free and jabbed again, this time aiming higher. The man made a strange gurgling noise and let out a few choked gasps. He pulled back, yanking the knife free and watching as the kid fell to the ground, where he twitched and gasped a few times.

He made no move to help or offer aid. He simply observed the process—that’s all it seemed to be, really. A process. The movement, the noises, the way the red blood flowed and mingled with the debris in the alley. And he continued watching even after the motions and noises had subsided. Though he was by no means a stranger to it, this was the first time he had witnessed death like this. He had never actually seen it this close before.

It was interesting. There was no sorrow, but rather fascination, much as he had been intrigued by shards of broken glass on a floor years earlier. He looked down at his hand, and realized that he had somehow managed to cut his own hand in the course of the fight. Blood was running down the back of his hand. And he found himself drawn to a conclusion much like one he had arrived at long before, though it went another step further, beyond the one he had drawn as a child.

Human life, like the one he had just ended, was really as fragile as that glass vase had been. And it could be broken just as easily, and left in pieces on the ground before the remains were taken away and disposed of.

It was…almost funny, somehow.

He paused to wipe his knife clean on the dead man’s sleeve before returning it to his pocket. It was then that he noticed his hands. In the dim light, he could see that they were red with blood. Though he had cut himself, he knew that there was no way for all of the blood to be his.

He examined his hands for a moment before wiping them on his black pants. He would have to wash his hands later. He tossed his long blonde hair back out of his face and turned to leave the alleyway, the body still on the ground. He would not be averse to witnessing this process again; it was interesting.

Only one thing about the experience had displeased him, really: the knifing had left a bad taste in his mouth. Next time, he would experiment with a different method. He knew that guns could be quite efficient, though they were hard to come by in Japan. But it wasn’t because he felt sorry for his victim, or because he thought that it would make death come any more quickly or painlessly.

He just didn’t like getting blood on his hands.



PS. What, no crack? That’s right! For number ten, we went to something…serious!

This is actually a new idea I’m applying for some of these fics—not all, though. There will still be some crack, I promise! But I was talking with magic_truth, and we got to discussing the fact that Gin displays some fairly sociopathic traits. So I did a little research and found a list of some traits common to sociopaths. Many of them did apply to our favorite mass murderer. So I’ll be using that list to inspire some fics in the future for this challenge. This one came from “Unable to feel remorse, shame, or guilt.”

So after being at this for over a year, we’ve finally made it to double digits! A third of the way through! YAY! Thanks for reading, all! Much love!


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