Yu-Gi-Oh! Reaper - Chapter Three

I finally got it! With some action, psychological junk, and easily the harshest visuals that I've ever written, this chapter I think conveys the tone and the desperation of this story perfectly. Let me know what you think, just be careful if you are squeamish.

The name of this chapter has a few meanings, btw. We get to see how Reaper lives, first of all, and we also get to see a bit about how Thompson lives, and we get to see first hand the ultimate condition that everyone must face in life: death.

Oh, and this update is important, because it is the first Yu-Gi-Oh! update to go up on a Wednesday, which will be the official day for Yu-Gi-Oh!-themed updates from now on.

On an unrelated note, I said in my last Yu-Gi-Oh! update that this chapter was giving me trouble and I meant it. Even the format is weird. It's 1.5 spaced, rather than 1, which is what I prefer, and I can't fix it. Maybe this chapter just didn't want to go up or something.

Chapter Three

Conditions of Living

Several blocks away, in a part of the city near the East River and the 9^th precinct, a long stream of smoke poured in through the broken window of an abandoned factory for an old mattress company the Reaper had never bothered to learn the name of. It swirled through the spacious, musty factory interior and into a sequestered section which housed the offices, reforming into the hooded figure of the still-shaken young man. Upon reforming he dropped momentarily to his knees and gulped down air for a minute or so before rising to his feet again.

I screwed up, the Reaper thought. I almost took things too far. I don't even remember what happened at the end there. I think he hit me with a magic attack, and I think I tried to find him again, but my head was spinning. I just had to get back.

He frowned, and thought to the voice in his mind, Thanks for that. Maybe if I hadn't been pushed I could have broken his spell and given him the penalty that he actually deserves.

Reaper paused, waiting for a response, but there was only silence. He scowled, Oh, so now I get silence.

What do I do? Reaper wondered, his fists clenched, his breathing fast and desperate. He was the last one, the loose end, but now he's gone! I'll never find him before he is able to escape the country. I'll never find him again.

Reaper looked across the mostly dark office room, to the one wall lit by the only remaining hanging fluorescent light, where he'd hung all of his findings, connected by string, all pointing to the once faceless being that he now knew as Martin Smith.

I'm not a detective. It took everything I had just to learn as much as I did. I couldn't even find Martin's name before I went after him. He's out of my reach now, and if I went to the police now they'd investigate me as well and figure out who I am, and they still probably wouldn't find Martin before he got away.

Reaper relaxed, Just one more failure. I can't beat a single drug-dealing scum, just like I can't find the evidence to make the world see what those people did to me so many years ago. I'm just not good enough to do this.

Reaper looked around the rest of the room. It was small, and it was almost as musty as the factory floor. Against the wall caddy-corner to the evidence wall was an old conference table with a few electronic devices that Reaper had borrowed for his quest, a simple laptop computer, a police scanner, and an alarm clock, powered by the same old emergency generator which powered the lights. Next to the electronics was pair of boxes, one which was closed, and the other which was wide open, and filled with convenience store food, which Reaper had also “borrowed”.

In the corner opposite the table was a mattress which had once been the best-looking mattress left on the factory floor, restored through a bit of Reaper's magic. Sadly he'd been unable to restore the lights and the walls the same way, figuring that he could only cast such spells on things that were made of mostly natural components, like the cotton mattress and down stuffing.

I don't care how I live,Reaper thought, looking around, as long as I am accomplishing something, but my failures keep mounting. Maybe I should move on, and try to make something more for myself.

He thought of his old friend, the one whose just attitude, combined with a sense of guilt over his first huge failure, was the reason why Reaper did all that he did, After all, wouldn't he want me to be happy?

But not for the first time, Reaper remembered the last words of that old friend who could speak no more, “keep doing good”, and he knew that he didn't have a choice. He owed that man everything good that he ever had, and he would fulfill his friend's wish even if it killed him to do it. After all, he's already convinced himself that he had nothing else to live for.

So resigned to his fate, Reaper removed his hood and cloak, and then removed his shirt and felt the tender spot where the passage of Martin's bullet though his smoky form had injured him, ignoring the sharp pain that he felt. He didn't even bother to dress the wound, and instead he decided to ignore it completely as he had the wounds which had left the various scars and blemishes which marred his skin. With another frown, he fell onto the mattress in the corner, desperate for any brief respite that he could get.

Across the island, at his home precinct, Detective Thompson lumbered to his desk and dropped heavily into his chair. He had bags under his eyes, and seemed to grumble almost involuntarily as he pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to squeeze the migraine out as he ignored the noise all around him. Thompson wasn't a morning person. He didn't sleep enough to be one, and he hadn't in years.

After several minutes of just sitting and doing nothing, Thompson finally allowed himself to integrate into the surrounding world as he rose slowly from his seat and lumbered over to the coffee pot. He downed one cup like a double shot, and then poured himself another, making his way to his desk again, where he empties a bit of fluid from a pocket flask, introducing it to the contents. He planned to spend as much time as he could get away with taking leaning his head against his hand and sipping the life-giving black nectar, his own "special blend".

I imagine that I'll get plenty of time to screw around, Thompson thought, now that I'm on this damn imaginary case. After all how many shits do I give about the Reaper? Zero, that's how many. I'll let Computer Cop look into it for a while on his own to make a show of it, and when I'm bored of sittin' on my ass, I'll just tell the Cap that we couldn't find a lead.

Thompson raised his crappy paper cut of crappy coffee to his lips, about to take a sip, when suddenly Detective James was at his side, dropping into a chair at the corner of Thompson's desk, startling the paper cup right out of Thompson's hands.

“Awe Hell-.” Thompson began, but he was interrupted.

“Good morning,” Detective James said cheerily, a wide grin on his face. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot last night. I think maybe you didn't realize that you were pretty insulting.”

“No,” Thompson replied as he dabbed coffee off of his thankfully-brown jacket, “we didn't get off on the wrong foot, and I did realize I was insulting you. I just didn't care. I still don't.”

“That's okay,” James replied, showing no sign of being disheartened at all by Thompson's comments, “I know you “old school” cops don't think much of the tech department, but I'm gonna prove to you what an asset we can be.”

He placed a file in front of Thompson, “I've put together a profile on the Reaper based on what we already know about him.”

Mildly interested, Thompson opened the file gingerly and leafed through the papers inside, and then he laughed.

“'Six-foot-four with martial arts training and experience as a detective or P.I.'. This is bullshit, it's useless. We saw him in the video. He was a scrawny little guy, even more than you. A regular stick boy. Looked young, too, too young to have much experience with much more than acne. If he's athletic at all, he'll be fast, not strong, and any deductive skills he has are probably self-taught.”

“I didn't notice that,” James replied.

“That's because you are too used to staring at a little screen to use your eyes to observe the real world. Even the bottom of my class at police academy could have put a better profile together than this his first day.”

James huffed, “Okay, I'll admit that maybe I got the physical parameters wrong, but there's more in there. Personality stuff, and patterns of behavior, and motivational stuff. Those things are based on way more concrete data. They should be more correct.”

Thompson leafed through a couple more pages, and he actually began to look a little impressed, “Yeah, okay, I can see this being right. Goes after bad guys to atone for something, or to keep a promise. I could see that. It would explain his dedication, and why he seems to be dismantlin' the organization instead of takin' it over. You put this together yourself?”

James smiled, “Sorta. It was compiled based on inputted data, by an algorithm I wrote to-.”

Thompson frowned and closed the file, “And I've lost interest. Now shoo, unless you've got something so impressive that I can't ignore it and keep my job.”

“A-actually,” James said, placing another file before the unmotivated older man, “I just might. It's a homicide that just came in this morning.”

Again Thompson leafed through the file with poorly contained disinterest, but as the details of the case sunk in, he scowled.

“Alright,” Thompson said with a reluctant sigh, “I'll admit this is weird enough that it could be him, but if it is him, then you might have been wrong about him being a hero all along, which is a thought I can certainly live with. Let's go.”

He rose a little less reluctantly than usual from his chair and headed for the door, with James at his side, files in hand, and a computer bag slung over his shoulder.

They took Thompson's car, to James’ dismay. The entire way to the crime scene, a twenty minute ride, even once Thompson got fed up and turned on his police lights, James did nothing but cite facts and figures describing the horrible effect that cars like Thompson's had on the environment. Thompson couldn't help but wonder if his ears were bleeding by the time it was all over. He was the first out of the car, actually moving faster than a saunter for once as he approached the officer on scene and asked said, “Howdy. Detective Thompson. I'm on,” he almost laughed at the ridiculous lie that the Cap had fed them to use the night before, “assignment to teach James here a bit about field work. Thought I'd give him a nasty one, see if he's got the stomach.”

Thompson flashed his badge, and James did the same. The pale-faced officer barely gave them a glance, “Nasty's right. I've never seen anything like this one before. We had some detectives on the way already, but if you two really wanna look, go ahead.”

With a wicked smile born of the thought of James yacking at the sight of the stiff that they had come to see spread on his face, Thompson thanked the officer and stepped under the police tape and into the alleyway. He walked forward until the details of the scene before him came into focus, and suddenly he was no longer amused. In fact, he was glad that he's looked at the file before seeing it for himself. Even with everything that Thompson had seen during his time on the force, he was glad to have a little preparation for this one.

Meanwhile, a little earlier, the Reaper was still sleeping, though not soundly, when the Whisper returned and spoke in his head, Wake up! Something has happened.

Immediately Reaper was awake and upright. He reached out, and smoke swirled around him, sweeping up his shirt, cloak and hood, and then surrounding his entire body. When the smoke dispersed, the Reaper was fully clad in his usual garbs. The jewel in his clasp glowed amber, and he dissolved into smoke, which, after a few moments, grew lighter until it resembled smog, a process which the Reaper found taxing enough that he avoided it when he could, and the smoke poured out into the day time sky.

He didn't know how, but he knew that he had to return to the place where Martin Smith escaped him, and he had to get there as soon as possible. He pushed himself as hard as he could, and when he arrived, he saw the police setting up a crime scene down the street. Curious, he smoked over to one of the buildings overlooking the scene and reformed, just as two detectives stepped out of an old sedan down by the street. Reaper's face filled with shock that was apparent just by the part of his face which was readily visible beneath his hood, and he stumbled back from the building's edge.

I-I was disoriented, but I couldn't have...

He caught his footing, and stood there shaking in his worn black shoes, Could I? Could this have been me? Did I do this?

He thought back, I was desperate, my mind strained between resisting his spell, and trying so hard not to go overboard with mine, and then the Whisper said that I should just kill him off and get it over with. But I said no! I said no, and he got away. Didn't he?

Reaper's head hurt. He had made light of the voice in his mind only the night before, but today he worried for his sanity. He thought of the appearance of the man below. He could do something like that to a person easily with the power he wielded. It would be almost effortless. Had he broken, chased the man down, and...done that to him, and them convinced himself of something else to preserve his psyche, and the illusion that what he did was still for the greater good?

If so, then I'm even worse than he is, and I deserve the same fate.

He looked up at the sky, smoke billowing around him as his emotions began to bubble up to the surface, where he least liked them, Tell me you worthless voice, did I do this or not? This is what you knew I really wanted to do, so if it was me, come out a brag about it so I know! Tell me!!

He was hyperventilating, but with great effort the Reaper was able to calm himself and slow his breath to manageable levels. Of course, he thought, the Whisper only comes when I least want it, and never when I need it. But if it just a part of me, will it know any more than I do? It certainly knew that I had to come here today, in time to see this before the site was cleared.

Reaper considered this, The only way I'll know for sure, if the Whisper won't speak, is to solve this mystery, and learn who I have to punish, whoever they are.

So reluctantly Reaper stepped back to the edge and looked down, just as the detectives from the street reached the grotesque scene below. Reaper took the scene in, determined to solve the mystery, for better or for worse.

The scene was horrific. As the two detectives approached, James gagged as he held back a throat full of bile, and Thompson nearly had to do the same. The man before them was barely a man any longer. His limbs were yards from the rest of him, cleaved almost surgically from his body. Blood covered the walls and the ground and what was presumably the man's spilled luggage for feet in every direction. The man's torso was splayed open in rows, and his head was severed, resting in what was left of his lap, looking up at the onlookers with still-open eyes, his last looks of terror frozen on his face. It was things like this which had caused Thompson to give up on the world, and it was things like this that kept him going, because despite himself, he couldn't let something like this go unanswered.

So even though he really didn't want to, for many different reason, Thompson adopted a grim expression and knelt down to get a closer look. He examined the cuts, and looked left and right to the severed limbs, and then back once more, before rising again to his feet. He turned to James, who had found his resolve once again and was mapping the scene with a digital camera removed from the bag on his arm. Thompson sighed, and he said, “What is that thing going to help?”

“I don't know that it will,” James replied, “but I wrote some software that can piece the crime scene together digitally. It isn't perfect yet, but it might be able to give us some insight that the the naked eye just can't.”

“Well,” Thompson said, rather seriously, “the naked eye has already told us a lot. From what I can tell the preliminary report was right about the detail that caught your eye: these cuts are all different lengths and depths, as if they were made by dozens of different knives.”

“And the Reaper,” James said, finishing Thompson's though with great reluctance, “the Reaper had at least a dozen knives on his belt in the video we received.”

“So unless some regular guy attacked with a dozen different knives, with strength enough to cut so clean and so deep with every single swing,” Thompson surmised, “there is only one person that this could have been. I almost feel bad enough to say I'm sorry, kid, but the truth is your hero is, from this moment forward, a murder suspect. Now come on, we need to go tell the Cap so he can decide where to go from here.”

“Almost done,” James said. He gagged again as he leaned in close and got a shot of the victim's face. “For facial recognition,” he said. “Even if the Reaper did go to far this time, he went after this guy for a reason. I wanna find out who he is, so I can figure out why.”

Up on the roof above, the Reaper, aided by magic, scanned the scene below him. He saw the faces of the detectives, the same detectives who had only the night before had been assigned to hunt him down.

They think this is me, too, he realized. I have to know. There has to be some detail that proves one way or another whether this was me. It won't help me with them, but it will still help me.

He kept looking, ignoring the churning of his stomach as his eyes crossed the man's mutilated form once again, taking in everything that was there. It was no use, however, as no detail of the scene below caught his eye.

Okay, he thought, if looking for what's there isn't helping, then what isn't there.

The blood caught his eye, Wait, so much blood, and yet I don't have anything on me!

He looked at his clothes, and removed a knife from his waste to examine it, just to be sure, and sure enough both were clean, or as clean as they had been the day before.

That doesn't mean anything for sure, though, Reaper realized, so he kept looking, and again the blood revealed the truth. The man's Shadow Item was gone, and there was no place where the blood had dried around it on the ground, not that the Reaper could see, which meant that the Item had to have been removed from the scene before the blood had settled. This man had been attacked for his Item.

And even if I had snapped, Reaper thought, a smile spreading across his face, I wouldn't have cared about his Shadow Item. I've never been interested in those things!

Despite the situation, the Reaper threw his head back, and he laughed, catching himself and stopping before anyone below could here. He was pleased. He was reasonably sure of his own innocence, and he had a new purpose. There was now a Shadow Sorcerer in the city who was already this powerful, and now he had a Shadow Item that was strong enough to hold back the Reaper's magic. Even if it wouldn't prove his innocence legally, the Reaper had to find this person and stop him before he could do any more harm.

Reaper took a satisfied breath, and the crystal in his clasp shimmered in preparation for the casting of a spell, which was interrupted by the arrow that found itself lodged in the Reaper's shoulder from behind.

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