Yu-Gi-Oh! Reaper - Chapter Four

Our first truly plot-related chapter is finally here, and, as I only intend this book to have somewhere around twenty chapters (this is subject to change, of course), we are tentatively 1/5 of the way through! Not that I don't enjoy writing this, because I do, more so than I should (notice that as my stories progress from book one to the present there is more and more blood and violence. I'm maybe a little messed up), but I just talked on The AwesomeBlog how when I have too many ideas at once, I get distracted, and I have a ton of ideas for later stuff in this series. Stuff that cannot skip this story, though it can be posted alongside it while causing only one major spoiler (I'm actually considering this), and maybe even heightening the emotional impact of this book's later chapters.

Wow, I got kind of stream of consciousness-y there, didn't I? Gist of it: I may be starting another proper series of uploads alongside this one fairly soon. 

 

Chapter Four

The Archer

For a moment or so, Reaper only stared at the arrowhead poking out of the front of his left shoulder. Then the full pain of the wound registered, and the Reaper bit back a cry as he swung around, grasping the wound as best as he could with a foreign object still in it, feeling warm blood flow between his fingers and down his left arm, beneath his sleeve. He cursed under his breath. Smoking around a projectile was one thing, but smoking out with a foreign object through him could cause even more damage and maybe cost him his arm. Whoever had attacked him, the Reaper would have to face them directly.

The Reaper scanned the entire area with alert eyes as he reached out with his magic, searching for any other magic, something which he'd failed to do when confronting Martin. He felt no other magic power, but his eyes did catch a flash of movement at the edge of the structure housing the roof access door. Someone was there, dressed in black body armor and some kind of reinforced helmet, carrying what looked like a collapsible bow. The figure swung around the edge of the structure and, all in one motion, caught sight of Reaper, knocked an arrow, aimed, and fired. Whoever he was, he had perfect accuracy, and it was all that the Reaper could do to veer left far enough to avoid all but a light tearing of the edge of his hood. The arrow whizzed by him and lodged into the wall of the building across the alleyway, only twenty feet above an active crime scene.

I can’t let myself be hit, Reaper thought, but I can’t let this guy alert the police to our presence up here. I need to disarm him and figure out why exactly he thought it would be a good idea to attack me with freakin’ arrows!

As he stepped quickly to the right, where his assailant’s line of sight would be lessened and where he could find cover behind a protruding roof vent, Reaper took his hand away from his injured shoulder and scooped up three knives from his belt. When the arrow-wielding figure once again peered around the edge of the roof access structure, to reconfirm Reaper’s position, Reaper let one of the knives fly, meaning to hit the bow and knock it from the mysterious figure’s grasp. However, before the blade could find its mark, the figure swung back around behind the structure and out of the way, only to come into view again a moment later at the other side of the structure, where his line of sight was greater. He took careful aim, and let another arrow fly, but Reaper was prepared for this.

Reaper had led his opponent here, after all. The moment that his foe appeared, he let two more knives fly in rapid succession. The first deflected the arrow right out of the air, and the second continued on toward its target, flying true. It was mere inches from his opponent’s weapon, and Reaper had surprised the opponent to the extent that he had no chance to duck once again to the side. Reaper had him, or so he thought. Moments before the knife would have done its work, the figure twirled his bow deftly like a baton and knocked the knife away. Reaper was taken aback at his foe’s proficiency at using his weapon defensively as well. He was impressed, but not too much so to duck back behind the vent in time to avoid another projectile.

Whoever this guy is, the Reaper thought, he’s good, and it almost seems like he’s prepared for fighting someone with my abilities.

Reaper glanced down at his belt. He’s already thrown three of his eighteen knives, and he couldn’t collect them again without using magic, which would likely only serve to escalate a situation that the Reaper wasn’t really sure of the nature of in the first place. Even though he was mostly sure that he was innocent of the murder below, Reaper was still unsure of himself, and escalation was the last thing that he wanted.

Reaper looked over his shoulder. He could no longer see the assailant, who seemed to be once again hidden behind the roof access structure, out of sight. Just to be sure, though, the Reaper looked around and listened for footsteps crunching on the gravely floor. Nothing.

I need to get in close and incapacitate him, Reaper thought, before things go on much longer, and I think I have just the way.

The Reaper once again reached for his belt and removed two more knives. Not actually smoking out, he summoned up some smoke around his feet, and he floated just above the ground, allowing him to move almost silently. He lunged toward the roof access structure, and as he did, he threw the two knives in quick succession at the ground to the right, meaning to simulate footsteps with their impacts. He jumped up, lifted by the smoke at his feet, toward the roof of the structure, just as the knives hit. One bounced back toward Reaper, out of his foe’s line of sight, as it was supposed to, but Reaper wasn’t as skilled with his right hand, and the other ricocheted in the other direction, where his foe could see and detect the rouse.

Shit! The Reaper exclaimed to himself as his feet touched down atop the structure, and he ran full speed to the other side, to stand above his foe, ready to incapacitate him from above, but it was too late. His foe was aware of the trick, and when the Reaper looked down upon him, the assailant looked back at him, an arrow knocked in his bow, aimed right at the Reaper's face.

Desperately, the Reaper leaned back, just as the arrow let fly. It missed his face by inches, and Reaper could see the tip of the arrow in detail. It was weighted and barbed. As he took a step back, he wondered how such an arrow could be very effective. Then the weight of the arrow tip turned it back toward the ground and it fell, lodging itself in the concrete at the Reaper’s feet. It was then that the Reaper saw the military grade climbing cord attached to the arrow shaft.

A grappling arrow? the Reaper wondered. He looked around just in time to see his foe, using the leverage granted by the anchored cord, run up the side of the roof access structure and spring up behind him. Reaper drew a knife from his belt.

The Reaper had never been a great hand to hand fighter, but in his time as a vigilante, he’d learned a thing or two in the few instances where his magic had not immediately been enough, and he’d seen plenty of people fight before, enough to know the generalities of a few varieties of martial arts. He knew he had to strike quickly and accurately to avoid a prolonged fight. He was, however, handicapped with just one arm, and his weaker one at that. He struck, but the blow was easily deflected by his opponent, who moved gracefully. He was clearly not the amateur that the Reaper was. With a flurry of expert movements, the mysterious archer disarmed the Reaper, and knocked him back.

Surprised, the Reaper took a step backwards, and found himself at the edge of the platform, the roof proper eight feet below. Unwilling to be knocked over, he stood his ground. His magic crystal shimmered as he called up some magic. As things stood, things couldn’t get much worse for him anymore, and a little escalation might actually make things better. However, before his spell could even be cast, the Archer twirled his bow expertly and took aim, knocking an arrow and letting it fly all in one motion, right at the Reaper’s head. He was awestruck by the speed and precision of the movements, and was caught off guard. He leaned back in a desperate attempt to avoid the arrow strike, and he stumbled and fell toward the rooftop below. The impact forced the arrow in his shoulder the rest of the way through. His hood fell away from the Reaper’s face, and he hit his head. The last thing he saw before blacking out was the Archer standing above him, his bow raised.

When the Reaper awoke, his first thought was that he was surprised to be alive. His second thought was that he was even more surprised to be propped against the roof access structure, his hood returned to its place on his head. Looking over at his shoulder, the Reaper found it bandaged and rather stiff, his arm held in a sling.

Still disoriented, the Reaper looked around. It was growing dark, meaning that several hours had passed. Standing several yards away, at the edge of the rooftop, overlooking the visible portion of the city, was a young woman in a form-fitting black jumpsuit, her arms crossed over her chest. Despite himself, the Reaper found his eyes tracing the shape of her body. She was lithe and athletic, more so than the Reaper himself, with the musculature of a martial artist. Reaper knew enough martial artists that he could easily tell. The Reaper’s eyes found their way to the mop of slightly matted fiery red hair that cascaded down the girl’s back. Even without being able to see her face, he found her rather attractive.

Carefully, the Reaper stirred, but even with the sounds of the city in the background to drown out the sound of his slight movement, the young woman heard him. “I wouldn’t move if I were you,” she said sternly, “that shoulder injury is pretty bad. I’m actually pretty surprised that you were able to keep going for as long as you did.”

“Yeah, well,” the Reaper replied bleakly, “I’ve gotten pretty good at ignoring pain.”

He paused, unsure of how much to say to this person. He didn’t see the previous assailant anywhere, so it was likely that they were safe, at least for the moment, but he worried that they still had limited time.

Regardless of how much I say, the Reaper decided, I have to control this situation.

So to prove that he wasn’t as incapacitated as he might seem to be, the Reaper stood up. He jostled his shoulder, sending a shot of pain surging through his torso, but he ignored it and stood up straight. Before he could speak, he heard the young woman laugh.

“Well,” she said, “I guess I didn’t expect someone like you to listen to my recommendation.”

“Someone like me?” Reaper asked.

The girl relaxed her stance a bit, “Someone who would fight so hard even with an arrow in their shoulder. To be fair, you’re lucky. That arrow could have very easily been fatal.”

“You saw the fight?” Reaper asked, aware that the reigns of the conversation had been rested from him, but not caring, as he was genuinely interested in how this girl would answer. If she had seen the fight, she might know where the assailant had gone. Reaper felt that the next step in the investigation would have to involve finding the Archer. It might be important to learn what, if anything, he knew about the crime scene below, which would have been cleaned up and vacated by now.

Then the young woman said something that changed the entire shape of the conversation and left the Reaper stunned, “Well yeah I saw it. You’re lucky that your cloak distorted your proportions enough that I missed your heart. I usually have better aim than that.”

The girl took a step to the side and turned to look back at the Reaper. He still couldn’t make out her facial features in the dim light, but he could see the Archer’s body armor and helmet stacked in the roof edge behind where she had been standing, and the Archer’s collapsible bow in her left hand. Reaper gave the girl another once over, and saw that she was in fact wearing the same black combat boots that the Archer had been. He pictured her in the body armor and helmet, and with a start he realized that in such attire, he would be hard pressed to notice her admittedly pronounced feminine features.

“Y-you attacked me?” the Reaper asked, struggling to shake his surprise. It wasn’t that he didn’t think that a woman could be so proficient or dangerous as to outclass him (though to be fair, he hadn’t used any magic), it was that, somehow, in just the few minutes that he’d been speaking with this young woman, the Reaper had formed an opinion of her that didn’t mesh with the image of the steely, cold-hearted assailant from earlier.

The girl, though, took the Reaper’s surprise as evidence of the former, and replied, indignantly, “Are you really so shocked that a girl could beat you?”

“No,” Reaper replied, regaining his composure quickly if only to save face, “I simply didn’t realize at the time that the attacker was a woman.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” the Archer replied with a half-smile. “My armor is supposed to hide my identity. I worked a long time on it.”

"You're pretty candid regarding your clandestine activities," the Reaper replied. He stepped one pace to the right and surveyed the area while taking full stock of himself. His belt with all of its knives was gone, along with the crystal that usually rested in his clasp. A quick second look at the place where the Archer's armor lay confirmed that his belt lay there as well, but the magic crystal was nowhere to be seen. The Reaper scanned the area for it desperately, trying poorly not to appear anxious.

"Are you looking for this?" The Archer asked, holding the amber jewel up for the Reaper to see. "I know enough about enough to recognize a magic item when I see one. No way I'll let you have this until our little talk has ended."

Reaper didn't answer. The nature of his crystal prevented anyone from using it who wasn't the original owner (Reaper himself) or someone proven worthy of having it, and the Archer had clearly achieved the latter. If she wanted to, she could use his own power against him.

"On what you said earlier," the Archer continued, "about my candor, I see no reason not to be. I figure now that your motivations for being here can't be too dissimilar from mine."

"Then why did you attack me?" the Reaper asked, even as he weighed his options.

"Because of what happened below," the Archer answered, sounding solemn. "I came here once I heard about the death in the hopes of catching the guy who did it, and when I saw you, I thought you were him, back to survey the result of his work."

"Then why did you stop attacking once I was down?" the Reaper asked, genuinely interested now in what the girl had to say.

For the first time during the conversation, the girl's resolve seemed to falter, and she paused before answering, "You lost your hood, and I saw your face. It wasn't the face of the man who caused the scene below. I've seen him before."

Now all of the Reaper’s attention was focused on the girl, his own situation forgotten completely, though he fought to hang on to his outward calm. If this girl did know something, anything, about the identity of the person who did this, the Reaper had to know.

“You’re sure it couldn’t have been me, though?” Reaper asked. “Explain how.”

“I told you,” the Archer replied, questioningly, “that I’ve seen him.”

“I could have changed my appearance,” the Reaper countered, playing the devil’s advocate.

“No,” the Archer replied, her voice turning solemn again, as she appeared to be lost in a thought, “you aren’t him, you’re far too young.”

“How long have you been after this guy?” the Reaper asked carefully. He could hear the weariness in the Archer’s voice.

She paused, as if she was unsure of whether or not she could trust the Reaper with her story, and he didn’t blame her for that. He wouldn’t trust her with his story, not right away, and maybe not ever. So the Reaper waited patiently. He didn’t want to push this girl away yet. She had information that he needed, though he was still surprised by just how anxious he was to keep her there. He hoped that he hadn’t asked too much and driven her away.

Then, finally, the Archer looked over at the Reaper and said, “Let’s just say that I’ve been chasing after this guy in one way or another for a long time. It looks like we’re both after him now. Once I realized that you weren’t him, it hit me who you really are. You’re the Reaper. You’re a vigilante. I’m not too proud to accept a little help, as long as I’m the one who gets to bring him down.”

She reached out and offered the Reaper a gloved hand. As she did, her face passed out of the shadows, and the Reaper could see her, not well, but well enough to be taken aback. She wasn't just attractive in body, she was also rather beautiful, with a welcoming, freckled face with a strong jawline, and soft emerald eyes which the Reaper could imagine once shone with kindness and happiness, rather than the sadness and the fatigue that the Reaper saw there now. Beside her eyes he saw the remnants of laugh lines that had long since been without use. The Reaper was faced, suddenly, with an entirely new sensation. He was stunned by the appearance of this girl who, like him, put up a facade of strength and confidence to hide the pain inside. He paused, but after only a moment or two of hesitation, he reached out with his own gloved hand and took hers.

Meanwhile, back at their own home precinct, both Thompson and James were working the murder case, which had been officially handed off to them a few hours ago thanks to the efforts of the Captain. While James was off doing God only knew with some computer systems, Thompson sifted fruitlessly through past case files for a similar MO, just in case something like this had happened before. He was still hoping that this case would develop into a regular murder, rather than a hunt for a vigilante who might have actual super powers. He was really trying to accomplish something, but as the hours drew on, he realized that it had been so long since he’d done anything productive that he wasn’t used to it anymore, and he found himself slipping off into a glassy-eyed state. He just couldn’t bring himself to focus as the day wore on, and his shift neared its end. Thankfully James was around to snap him out of it. As he had that morning, James suddenly dropped into a chair at Thompson’s desk and dropped a file into Thompson’s field of view.

“I found out who our victim was,” he announced.

Startled, Thompson collected himself quickly and cleared his throat before thumbing open the file folder. He was greeted by a driver’s license photo of a man whose features matched the crime scene report photo of the severed head from that morning. Thompson read the man’s name: Martin Smith.

“You found him alright,” Thompson replied, actually impressed with James’ resourcefulness. They hadn’t found a match to the victim’s fingerprints in the system. Thompson honestly hadn’t expected to see confirmation of the man’s identity any time soon, let alone in the same day.

“I wrote a piece of software a while back,” James explained, “that is able to run facial recognition against the DMV photo records to discover the identities of John Does. It only works maybe fifteen percent of the time, but sometimes I get lucky, and I improve it every time I go back and use it. It seems that Mr. Smith here falls within whatever fifteen percent of characteristics the software is able to reliably detect. I wish I could actually nail down what that is exactly. If I could, I might be able to perfect the system.”

Thompson listened to James, if only subconsciously as he turned the pages of Smith’s file, checking its length.

“There’s a lot here,” Thompson said, puzzled. “Too much for all of this to be identity stuff. After all, this guy’s never been arrested. We shouldn’t have much on him other than his basics.”

“Oh, well,” James explained, showing his shaky nerves again, “I actually found out his identity an hour after we got back today. I guess I should have told you that. But anyway, after I found out who the victim was, I checked his background and complied the information into another system I’ve been working on which automatically correlates numbers. I fed it a bunch of Smith’s financials and cross referenced with his income, and even though he’s been careful not to be overt with this fact, it would seem that he regularly pulls in large lump sums and then channels them offshore. He also seems to have regularly reallocated funds from those overseas accounts to various others both overseas and in the city.

“Yet he had no trust fund,” James concluded, “or lottery winnings, or money at all, really, and he lived in a barely decent apartment that was rent controlled. He worked as an accountant. A good one, if the brief conversation that I had earlier with his former supervisor is any indication, and even though he could have advanced in the company, he chose to stay where he was. He has no purchase history to speak of, and the first extravagant purchase that he made in years was just a couple of days ago: round trip ticket to Europe.”

“It’s like,” Thompson said, sifting through the documentation and connecting the dots for himself as James spoke, “the guy has been accumulating funds from some kind of side project, an extremely lucrative one based on these reports.”

“So you think-?”

“Yeah,” Thompson said bleakly, and all enthusiasm drained from his young partner’s face in anticipation of his words, “I think that the connections between the city’s drug rings all lead back to this guy. I think he’s the one who this Reaper guy was after. That cements it. As of now, the Reaper is our prime suspect.”

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