Yu-Gi-Oh! Reaper - Chapter One

Okay, fair warning, this is a very different Yu-Gi-Oh! story. Card games do not save the day in this one, only resolve and dedication. This story will be depressing, and, hopefully, everything will come together by the end. I say hopefully because it is a mystery story that I've only partially plotted. I spent so much time trying to get this one just right, to no avail, that I've since decided to go forward with what I have and hope that the rest will unfold as a mystery often does. Where the other Yu-Gi-Oh! stories on this blog have been written and re-written and edited and re-edited, this one will likely not be perfect the first time through. It will probably be re-edited more than once. If a chapter is every re-edited, I will post that it has and link to the updated post.

If you have liked my Yu-Gi-Oh! stories up until now, I hope that you will like this one, too, even though it is not at all a conventional Yu-Gi-Oh! story, or maybe even because of it. If you don't think that you will, that's fine, but I urge you to try. Either way, here is the first chapter.



Chapter One

A Clandestine Meeting

Late at night an old sedan turned off of one of Manhattan's many highways onto a worn exit ramp, and drove along a worn, two-lane road into a deteriorating, nearly-abandoned section of the city, so neglected that there were no open shops, and streetlights were few and far between. Its dark color caused it to blend easily with the darkness that somehow managed to even avoid the majority of the light pollution from the city proper, only its loud, banging engine, and the few places where its paint was worn away to reveal the steel metal underneath giving it away. After several minutes, the sedan turned onto a side street, under one of those few streetlights, and curved around behind a shabby office building, overgrown with weeds, and pulled into a broken and overgrown parking lot that was nearly indistinguishable as something apart from the thin forest around it, parking alongside a much newer car. It was a Prius, or something resembling one. The occupant of the sedan didn't know, and he didn't care. He didn't really care about much these days. He opened his door with a loud creak, and stepped out of his car and stood there in the low light for a minute. He looked around, taking notice of a third vehicle, an old 1970's Impala, as he took a few draws from a freshly lit cigarette, dropped it at his feet and pressed it with his toes into the gravel.

The man was what the average person might call middle-aged, but he considered himself to be quite old. You don't see the things that this man has seen without coming to think of yourself as quite old. In all of his years as a NYPD officer and then detective, he'd been worn down. Anything he ever did was because, at this point, he didn't have anything else better to do. You could tell just by looking at him. This was a man who had been thoroughly defeated by life, and he didn't care how obvious it was. He'd lost things. He'd lost people. And he just didn't care anymore.

Despite all of this, however, when the man finally started walking again, he walked with a practiced false confidence. He had a small gut, but otherwise he was still in impressive shape. Standing six feet tall, he had the general build of a quarterback, with a square jaw, and hair which remained full and dark brown despite a slightly receding hairline. He wore an outdated brown blazer and gray slacks over a white shirt and a gray tie, all of which were noticeably discolored and faded. His brown eyes were sharp, falling upon the smallest of details as he walked along the gravel lot toward the overgrown building, and despite the fact that he kept his gaze low, as if he were someone who only looked higher when he had to, and rarely to meet another person's eye, there were wrinkles in the edges of his eyes, the remnants of old smile lines. While most people wouldn't even notice them, they were the kind of detail that, if you did notice them, they would only make you sad, because this man was sad.

The man reached the building, stepping right up to a door in the back and pulled it open. It creaked even more loudly than his car door. He held the door for a moment, took a deep breath, and then in a manner as practiced and as false as his walk, the man forced all of the apathy from his face, replacing it with a façade of impatience and professional detachment, one which he relied upon to keep his colleagues at arm's length, where he preferred them to be. Then he straightened up out of his usual slouch and took a step forward, across the threshold, his feet leaving footprints in the dirt and dust which had long since settles on the floor inside, alongside two other footprint trails that seemed just as recent. Footprints which he noticed, but paid very little attention to, suggesting that he did expect them to be there. 

The man followed those other footprints down a hallway, barely lit by the light from the streetlamp out front along the road trickling in through the dirt covering the grimy windows which lined the upper edge of the walls. He could see just well enough to notice when those footprints turned a corner down an interior hallway, where there was no light at all. The man felt his way along the wall, turned once again, toward the front of the building, and discovered a door at the far end of the hallway which was pulled to, but open just far enough to see the light from the streetlamp outside framing it, pointing the way. The man stepped toward the door, his hands in his pockets, his right hand mere inches from the gun still holstered at his side from his duty shift earlier the same day, his left hand inches from the badge clipped to his waist, and he carefully pushed the door open with his foot before stepping into the room behind it.

Waiting for the man in the room were two others. One was older than the man, standing facing toward a large window which overlooked the road out front and, despite being as grimy as the rest, let in considerable light from outside and offered a decent view. He stood behind an old, dust-covered desk that was, along with a filing cabinet and an old broken AV stand leaning against the far corner, one of the few pieces of furniture left within the room. The only other thing in the room at all was a newer model laptop disturbing the thick layer of dust on the desktop. 

The second, older man was almost completely bald, with salt and pepper hair, and he stood a bit taller than the first man, but he wasn't in as good a shape. His arms were crossed impatiently. He wore a striped button-up shirt, brown slacks, and a NYPD badge hanging around his neck. The third man was both shorter than both of the other men and younger, with light brown hair and green eyes. He wore crisp black pants and a crisp white shirt and rimless glasses. He was thinner than either of the other men, but mostly because he wasn't as muscular. He wore no gun, but he did have a badge similar to the others clipped to his breast pocket.

"Detective Thompson," the man behind the desk said without turning around, his voice gruff and absolutely serious, "you're late."

"Sorry sir," Thompson said, following the older man's gaze out to the empty street outside, "traffic was a bitch."

"This isn't a joke, Thompson," the older man said, turning to face Thompson and the younger man for the first time.

"Really?" Thompson asked, sounding mildly annoyed. "Is that why we're meeting in an abandoned police annex that hasn't been used in thirty-five years, instead of at the office? Is that why he's here?"

Thompson gestured to the younger detective, who didn't seem to realize that he'd just been insulted. He was too nervous, his eyes darting around, his hands clenched tight at his sides.

"Detective James is here for the same reason that you are," the older man replied. "The NYPD needs you both for something. Something important. Something which must remain off the books, at least for now, hence the secretive nature of this encounter."

"And that is, Captain?" Thompson asked, his tone barely hiding his disinterest.

The Captain hesitated for just a moment before continuing a little hastily, "I've spent some time considering how to handle this situation, and I think that the best course of action would be to simply cut to the chase. I'm assuming that the two of you have heard of the Reaper?"

"The Grim Reaper?" Thompson asked with a knowing smirk on his face.

"No," said Detective James, speaking finally, his nervousness instantly replaced with excitement, "he's talking about the vigilante that's been spotted all over the city, and in several other U.S. cities. The one who's been working his way through the city's drug dealers one at a time. The one who reportedly has special abilities. Those who have seen him say that just looking at him makes you afraid. Muggers and street thugs run scared at the slightest glance."

Thompson looked with amusement at his younger counterpart, "Been reading the tabloids, have ya?"

Thompson laughed, and the younger man frowned, but both were interrupted when the Captain spoke again, "He may not be wrong."

Immediately Thompson was silent, and James looked thoroughly surprised. Both looked the Captain right in the eyes. The Captain began pacing back and forth as he continued.

"You need to know," He explained, "that we actually know much more about the Reaper than we've let on. Myself and the other division Captains, in collaboration with the Mayor, decided early on that we would suppress as many accounts of the Reaper as possible until we understood better how it is that he is able to do what he does."

"So its true," James asked, "he does seem to disappear, and his victims-?"

"Comas," the Captain confirmed, looking out the window once more, "all of them. Every one of the drug dealers and pushers that he's captured. And doctors can't find a cause. He's worked his way through a half dozen seemingly unrelated drug rings, putting any member he finds into a coma, and we have no idea how he does it, or how he gets close to these people, or how he survives it. Rumors of sightings of the hooded figure all over the city all on the same night, at this point, can be chalked up to copycats, and I'm sure there are more than a few, but the truth is something has been going on in this city for almost two months now, something that we don't understand fully."

"But Carl," Thompson said, a disbelieving smile curling his lips, a chuckle finding its way up through his throat, "you can't seriously be entertaining the possibility that this guy has..."

He couldn't bring himself to say it.

"Super powers?" the Captain asked. "No, we weren't entertaining any such notion, not until we received this in the mail yesterday."

He held up a DVD Rom. Without a word, he inserted it into the disk drive on the laptop sitting upon the desk before him. It blinked to life, and a video player opened immediately, playing footage of a wide open room with several tables covered in chemistry equipment. Three men were busy cleaning the place out, one of them yelling at the others as they moved around frantically. After a few minutes, all three men stopped cold as dark smoke began to pour into the room. In a way that was made even more disturbing due to the lack of audio, one of the men screamed as the smoke reached him. There was movement within it, as if a person were struggling against another, and, as the other two watched, this first man collapsed, unmoving. The smoke pulled in around him, taking on the shape of a man no larger than James, seemingly made of the smoke itself.

The remaining two men, the leader and the second lackey, drew pistols and opened fire, but the smoky man only dispersed, the smoke curling around the two men, coalescing around the legs of the second lackey, dragging him away into a dark area of the large room, from which he didn't emerge. The third man moved hesitantly toward the dark area, his weapon held ready, unaware of the figure forming from dark smoke behind him. He wore a dark blue cloak and hood, smoke floating around his face, hiding it from view, a black shirt, and black pants, his cloak held in place by a clasp adorned with some kind of round jewel. Hanging from a belt at the figures waist was a set of at least a dozen small knives. Smoke billowed around his feet and legs, lifting him up above the floor to tower over his prey. Suddenly the leader turned in an instant and saw the figure there. Shocked, he dropped his weapon and stumbled back, falling over one of the tables and crashing to the floor. The figure of Reaper slunk forward, smoke rolling off of him, curling around the criminal who was screaming on the floor, terrified.

The leader looked up at the Reaper, as if listening. Then he spoke, flinched, and spoke again, more desperately this time. It only took Thompson a few seconds to realize that the criminal was being interrogated by the Reaper. Finally, after a few more minutes, the dialogue seemed to come to an end, and the criminal seemed to calm down. The Reaper lowered to the floor, smoke still billowing around him, but no longer lifting him up. The criminal picked himself up and moved to run, but suddenly the Reaper was in front of him again. Smoke from under the Reaper's cloak filled the room, and when it dispersed, the Reaper was gone, and the Criminal was on the ground again, unmoving.

"It came with a note," the Captain said, "which simply read, 'I thought it was time that you knew that I am real, and I'm doing your job. I found out today that everything I believed is true, that there is one man residing over almost all drug crime in the city. Maybe you will actually be able to find him before I do, but probably not'. The message was signed with this."

He tossed a Duel Monsters card onto the desk. A card titled 'Dokuroizo the Grim Reaper', with all but the last word crossed out violently.

The Captain looked the two detectives in the eye, "I'm going to say this once. Whoever and whatever this Reaper is, we need to know yesterday, and we need to stop him before he does something like this again."

"But sir," James argued, "what's so wrong with letting this guy do what he's been doing? If the rumors are true, everyone he's caught has been found with incriminating evidence either on or in the vicinity of their person. He's succeeded in a couple months at something that our department hasn't been able to achieve in decades. He's like Batman, doing things that the police can't for the greater good."

"Is he?" the Captain asked. "Not one of the people that this so-called Reaper has captured in this manner has awoken yet to stand trial, and we have no way of knowing if they ever will. They don't respond to any stimuli. Medically they're just one step above brain dead. What this Reaper does, whether its supernatural or not, it's illegal, and its quite frankly terrifying, which is why I ordered you to meet me here, and not at the station, and why we're keeping this quiet."

"Keeping what quiet?" Thompson asked indignantly, though he clearly had already guessed the answer.

"The investigation," the Captain responded. "You two will conduct an investigation into the Reaper, but you'll do so completely off the books. Officially the two of you are on probationary assignment. You, Thompson, thanks to your years of antisocial behavior, have been chosen to supervise the field training of one of our tech department's brightest, who, despite this, has no field experience at all, a relationship that the department thinks will do both of you good. You have been given broad discretion as to caseload, using the excuse that such a scenario will offer more diverse training opportunities. Appearance wise the department will seem to be grooming you two for a specialized partnership. After all, up until a couple years back, you, Thompson, were one of the department's very best, most dedicated cops. No one will question your limited involvement in any ongoing investigation under those circumstances."

"And unofficially?" Thompson asked, not even bothering to hide his annoyance anymore.

"You'll be keeping an eye out for anything related to the Reaper which might lead you to his identity, or to the identity of the man he mentions in his message," the Captain answered. "You'll answer directly to me, and you won't speak of this investigation to anyone else besides me and yourselves. The department's stance on the Reaper is that he doesn't exist. First and foremost your responsibility is to make sure that, as far as the public is concerned, that statement remains true."

"This is ridiculous," Thompson said, turning to leave, "I have other responsibilities. Find someone else to chase ghosts."

"There's no one else I'd want for the job," the Captain answered, stopping Thompson in his tracks. "You were once our brightest mind. I think you can be again. If you can find that part of yourself, there's nowhere that this Reaper will be able to hide."

"And why him?" Thompson asked, turning again toward the Captain, and again gesturing toward James.

"Because he believes in the Reaper," the Captain replied. "He's studied all of the rumors, and likely understands the Reaper better than anyone we might have access to under an official capacity. This is happening Thompson. Deal with it."

The Captain turned again toward the window, his hands clasped behind his back. "You're dismissed," he said. "Your investigation starts tomorrow."

James left quickly, obviously excited by the prospect of seeking the man who he obviously looked up to, but Thompson lingered just long enough for the Captain to say, "No argument's Thompson. Now go, you're dismissed."

Reluctantly Thompson left as well. The Captain stood for several minutes, smoking a cigarette of his own, putting it out by pressing it against the windowsill in front of him. Then he packed up the laptop, and he left as well, leaving behind a seemingly empty room.

Then, several minutes later, after sound of the third and final of three car engines faded into the distance, the shadows in the darkest corner of the room rippled, dissolving into dark smoke, which, for just an instant, formed the shape of a young man in a cloak, before becoming smoke again and disappearing through the gaps in the window frame, into the dark of the night.

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