Chapter Text
Chapter 2~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I shove my phone into my bag and seal the belt like strap to close the ensemble. I clock out after waving Chigau good bye, and I exit Storytellers’ Book Nook.
Something hits the top of my head. Looking up through my dark mop of hair over my eyes, I feel another little dot fall on my cheek. Cumulonimbus clouds have taken over the sky by storm, and they have forced all the stratuses to drift away with their wispy spirals of smoke-like white. The drops fall on my shoulders next.
The blur of background noise becomes visible as I watch in dismay half of the shoppers on the street tap on their weather bracelets with a click of plastic and metal. The drizzling around them stops and the air steams above the peoples’ heads, repelled by a barrier of heat produced by the technology.
Though most technological advancements have been pointed towards projects that appeal to Naturals to grant them some sense of superiority, there’s always some companies that make phenomenal devices that help their users through basic everyday life. For example, self-heating pots, earbuds that shut off when they sense one wants them to, or most famously, those weather bracelets.
The bracelets themselves aren’t the most compact of things, since they need some space to do the work they do. They cover a quarter of the wearer’s arm. To solve the inconvenience, the bracelets have all kinds of cases to cover their plain white, black, rose gold, or silver base. Those cases aren’t made by the producers of the original product, however. But since they’re cases and not the actual device, companies can make whatever kinds of add ons they want. It’s a rather interesting system, and it mirrors old phone trends when I was in my teens.
And they’re ridiculously expensive. So of course I don’t have one.
I walk quicker, hoping that if I’m fast enough, I’ll miss the most intense part of the rain. I’d rather not prefer to have my hair sopping wet when I get home, and besides that, the water will get in my eyes, and I can’t rub them with people watching. A crash of thunder smashes through my ears. Normally, this would be a rather joyful occasion, since I love watching the rain, and I find it most entertaining to watch lightning shatter the sky. However, being in a thunderstorm is than pleasant without even the old unreliable umbrella.
The way past the normally calm but now rushing canal swells with people. Grassy hills down to the water slosh from blackish oil-stained mud collected from the road above. Rainwater splashes over the edges of the river and widens the amount of already-waterlogged pale grey concrete by overfilling the waves.
I internally groan, wishing on everything good in this world that I’ll get home in at most a half hour. With this congestion, the longest it could take to get back to the train station could be as much as two hours, pessimistically.
I crash into a woman likely in her mid-thirties pushing a stroller thanks to my hair impairing my vision. I try to apologize, but she’s not having any of it. She gives me a dirty look and pushes me out of her way. In the process, I trip over a few other people who react the same way she did until I’ve tumbled down the hill and roll into the river. I spit the foul water out of my mouth after securing my hair.
Thunder cracks again. The people on the road scatter away in a mess of steam, leaving me alone. A strange light illuminates the air around me. The hair on my arms stand on end. Lightning is going to strike the river! I scramble out of the canal just fast enough that I avoid getting electrocuted. Breathing heavily, I lean against the grass and curse myself when I feel the mucky substance connect with my back. I’ve got to be the most unfortunate person right now. Well, at least there’s no way things can get worse.
“You’d better not be hurt,” someone said, concerned. “How else will you have a sliver of a chance of defeating me in our mystery competition?”
Or things can.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him weakly.
The green eyed man walks down the hill, dirtying his expensive-looking shoes. Is he really going to go that far to see his Vincent Heathering rival fail?
“This is the route I take to get home, he responds. “My house is only five minutes away from here,” he explains.
Lucky him, I pout.
He narrows his eyes. “Telling by that expression, you’ve got a while to go.”
The rain continues to pour over me. I stay silent.
“You’re still a ways. So why don’t you come over to my place?” he offers, again somehow knowing everything that happens. “Besides, I have a hard time navigating this bend, so your help would be much appreciated.”
I shake my head. “I don’t even know what your name is,” I mumble. “I’m fine anyway,” I lie.
He grabs my arm. “The name’s Edogawa Ranpo, but you can call me Ranpo.” He drags me towards the road. “And no, you’re not.”
The dead grass scrapes my back as he tries to move me upward. I stand, protesting, “Ahh, one name isn’t good enough for you to take me to your supposed house! How do I know if I can trust you?”
He continues yanking. “You’re taller and likely stronger that me. If I wanted to hurt you, you’d be able to stop me easily.”
He has a point, plus I have a half-finished draft for the mystery challenge in my bag if I really needed to stop him. I’d read enough novels to know I had created a pretty difficult situation. Although he is smart, I’d still be able to hold him off long enough for me to get away.
“Alright,” I agree. Shivering, I sneeze.
He smiles like he’s got some diabolical plan, and I already begin to regret my choice. “Follow me,” he commands.
As he leads, he changes his weather bracelet to the two-person setting. The heat dries my clothes, though it hardens the mud in the process. My hair clumps where the wet dirt has touched, but I’m too tired and soppy to care that much.
Out of the downpour I can finally enjoy the weather. The sounds I found bothersome and dangerous before are now background noise that I can listen to along with the peaceful plops of raindrops on the ground. A gratefulness beats against my chest, but I won’t admit to him besting me just yet. I didn’t know his name five minutes ago, for goodness’ sake.
We reach an apartment complex, with expansive windows on each room and chestnut walls and a brown roof with tile decorations atop it. Ranpo bows mockingly, narrating, “And thus we reach the Ranpo estate, in which Poe thanks me greatly for letting him stay here until the rain ends.”
I look at him with half-closed eyes and exhale forcefully through my nose.
He ushers me through the door, of which is on the bottom floor two spaces away from the end. “Come on, I’ve got a change of clothes for you.”
I follow his lead and sit on his windowsill, eying the the eight-foot-tall ceilings and the sliding door that forms a small second room. I fish out my story from my bag, thank goodness the inside is waterproof, and start to continue writing on he leaves to grab me a new shirt.
Vincent pivoted, only to see a cat behind him. It meowed, then turned away to catch the scraggly rat scurrying around Victoria’s scarlet high heels on the aged wood floorboards.
“Vincent, I’m scared,” quivered his new assistant. She grabbed his arm, her teeth chattering.
He flashed a warm smile at her. “Don’t worry,” he assured her, patting her shoulder.
He couldn’t ignore her worries, not in the most dangerous of situations. If she died, he’d never forgive himself. Although they’d only known each other for a few weeks, he’d fallen head over heels.
The ceiling began to rumble. Dust fell from it, cloaking the two with it. They choked on the foul air. A bad feeling rushed through Vincent. It smelled oddly of sleeping powder. Was this a trap?
A familiar twisted gold cane with a red sphere atop it came into view, along with the owner of it curling his long-nailed fingertips over the stained sanded acacia.
“You did good to get this far, you two. It’d be a shame if all that work was for naught, wouldn’t it?”
Vincent bore his teeth. “If it’s Victoria you’re after, you’ll have to go through me first!” He protected her with one outstretched arm and readied his gun with the other.
“Oh, quite the contrary, my boy,” Witherlay declined, shaking his head.
Ranpo’s cheerful whistling snaps me back to reality. He hands me a bright red t-shirt and pair of Hawaiian flower shorts. I grimace. He couldn’t have possibly picked a worse combination. Though, looking at his expression, that was probably his intention. I take them anyway, though. They’re better than a band shirt coated in oily muck.
I unfold the shirt, and Ranpo’s grin widens. Printed on the front in bold white lettering reads, “Certified Dumbass”. So, that’s how he wanted to be. Even though I’d only met him twice, that seemed just like him. Although, he did get me out of the rain, and I don’t want more confrontations. It’s enough having to go out and talk to people at work, which is why my goth disguise works so well. They’ll just assume I want to brood by myself or something or other. Whatever, I’ll change again when I get home.
“I save these for occasions like this,” Ranpo explains. “I don’t want to be mean-spirited, but come on, that was pretty funny.”
I blush embarrassedly. I’ll have to go out in these and stick out like a sore thumb.
He points to the sliding door. “I’ve got some actual stuff back there,” he says as he opens a bag of Skittles and dumps half the contents into his mouth.
Thankfully, the clothes are relatively normal. Just a white v-neck tee and dark blue jeans. I put them on and return to the main room.
Ranpo rests his elbows on his table. “Who’s your favorite Vincent Heathering character?”
I close the sliding door. “I like Alistair, but Lucinda’s also up there for the best in my opinion.”
He nods enthusiastically. “That scene in book four when Alistair sacrifices himself and nearly dies in order to let his friends get away from the Intellect Chasers was definitely a great moment for him. I really missed him for the next two books, but the side novel in his point of view during his time away from the Oddity Investigators made it worth the while. It opened up a lot of development that I hadn’t expected would be so defining to his character. I never expected to get so emotionally involved with him considering the way he was kind of brushed off as a side character in the first two books and not given much time to shine. Although I knew he’d became important by the way he was introduced in the first book early on along with two super major characters. You can’t not see that Ēsutantei wanted to have him have his time to shine later on.”
“I would have cried if he died,” I agree. “It seemed like that was where things were going for book 5 and most of book 6. I know that Terrence said he would have sensed Alistair’s presence through his aura had he died, but he’d never felt someone’s aura go away before, so that wasn’t that good of a confirmation. And how about the part in before the sacrifice scene where it’s revealed that Alistair had been Witherlay’s double agent the whole time? I didn’t see that coming until the little hints in the first two came into place at the beginning of 3.”
Ranpo nearly spit out his candy in shock. “You’re telling me you only knew it one singular chapter before it was confirmed? I got that by the first book! He was so skittish when they talked about Witherlay’s plans, and whenever the OI got to the core of a mystery, he always gave them incorrect advice. Yet he seemed on the smart side when they weren’t dealing with anything related to his dad. There was a reason he was given the title of second best detective, but only when they weren’t solving Witherlay’s crimes. It’s no wonder he confessed to being a double agent, but he showed a lot of growth from his quiet and feeble self from book 1 when he rebelled against his dad despite the deadly consequences he could have suffered. By the way that side novel went, he basically did deal with those questions, but he survived through them. But now he’ll permanently have the Catcher Mark scars all over his body.”
I return to writing. “What do you think’ll happen now that Victoria’s a new member of the OI? I like her, but after Alistair, and her sudden appearance, I can’t trust her.”
Ranpo rolls his eyes. “She’s a red herring. That much is obvious.” He takes a bite our of a Kit Kat and presents to me a Snickers bar. “You want one?” he asks with a full mouth.
“Oh, I couldn’t—thank you—I—ah—“ I stammer as I try to decline. He let me stay at house and gave me dry clothes and I don’t want to seem rude, but I already hurt my taste buds enough with the microwaved meals I eat almost every day. Also, I don’t like the taste of chocolate, but that’s besides the point.
He squints then eats it himself. “More for me!”
The amount of sugar he’s consumed in just the past five minutes is appalling, but I hold that criticism in. Just how in the world he’s able to have that much without any repercussions I can’t even try to fathom. It also makes me worry about his metabolism.
“Victoria’s just a love interest to spice up the romance section of those books. It’s no secret that Lucinda likes Vincent, but she’s to afraid to say it. A love triangle should push her to confess. Although, it’s a bit of a shame that she’s got her heart set on Vincent. I think Lucinda and Dominic would be a way more interesting pairing, but whatever.”
I perk up at the mention of the two. “You like that pairing too? I’ve been wanting those two to get together since book 1! But how about Terrence and Victoria? That one’s gotten remarkably popular amongst the Ent Int fandom since she got introduced, but I don’t like their character dynamic.”
“I swear, if any more of our opinions mirror themselves, the world’s gonna explode,” he comments incredulously. “At least we disagree on the mystery side plots. Speaking of which, is that your rough draft?” He points towards the paper beside me.
Frightened that he might read it, I grab it and hold it to my chest. “You can’t read it,” I respond sharply.
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t ask why. The candy wrappers crackle as he bundles them in his hands to toss them in the trash.
He clears his throat awkwardly after the sudden tension and smiles politely but distantly. “I’ve got the idea. It’s pretty embarrassing to let people read your drafts. I’m sorry I asked. Can we exchange pieces next week?”
I bite my lip. “I’d prefer to just read mine aloud. I don’t like people looking at my handwriting. It’s not very good since I’m not from here. Sometimes I make some pretty embarrassing mistakes.”
The lie is partially true, but I know he’ll wonder why I won’t type it and give it to him that way. I hope he won’t find the reason behind my secrecy. It’d be terrible if he found out. Maybe I should call off our competition. But that would only intensify the strangeness of my attitude. He’d no doubt figure out my Supernatural status. I’d seen him display his mental abilities more than enough times to know how dangerous he could be to my safety.
How do I fix this? I don’t know anyone that would write my mystery for me. I don’t have enough money to commission somebody on the Lit Int to make it for me, either.
I need to cut off all ties with this man, otherwise I’ll most certainly get forced into a marriage I don’t want. Then again, would that really be that bad of a fate? It’d end my low budget lifestyle. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible.
Did I really want that after I’d tried so hard to avoid it though? Did I really want to compromise my chance at finding true love? Is it worth sacrificing my living conditions in order to possibly obtain it? What was true love, anyway? A perfect romance? Finding someone that went seamlessly with me? Even if I did obtain what I thought I wanted so badly, would I have to keep my identity a secret forever? I don’t want that. All I really want is to be happy, and being showed off like a sparkly trophy by some rich Natural wouldn’t bring it. But does the same go for lying my whole life?
“It’s fine,” Ranpo murmurs. “How about we pass the time with a board game?” he suggests suddenly with a much brighter disposition, changing the subject.
“Okay,” I agree enthusiastically, happy to focus on something else.
He enters the smaller room and goes into the closet, picking through his things in it. He moves aside what must be every old game console that exists in this world. There’s a GP3, a Yuu, an original Handheld Double Screen, and things I don’t even know the name of. After moving through the treasure trove of consoles, he gets to a well-aged copy of Evidence.
“Here we go.” He drops the game down on the wooden table in the center of the light green carpet. “I’m playing Lady Violet,” he adds, removing the top of the box and snatching the purple player piece.
“I see, I see.” I take Sir Forest for myself.
I unfold the board as he shuffles the cards, thanking every wonderful force that saved the moment. Now we can just enjoy a fun but competitive game before I leave.
The evidence cards are put into their seal, then the extra are shuffled out and divided between the two of us. Lastly, he tears off two Investor Sheets and puts one in front of me and the other in front of him.
I look at the cards I’ve been dealt. Kitchen, Study, Lounge, Library, Conservatory, Hall, Wrench, Mr. White, and Lord Red. I take a pencil and check off the boxes for those. Ranpo follows my lead, and I see a smile play on his lips as he does so.
We roll off the die, and of course he goes first. That’s what I get for rolling a one. He rolls again to move, then travels in the direction of the Kitchen.
I eagerly wait for my next turn, only to move but one single space. These rolls are so comedic it makes me have to stifle a snort.
“You know, I almost feel bad for you with the way things are going,” Ranpo chortles.
I cross my arms with mock offense. “Just wait until I’ve won the game.”
He bats at the air with his wrists and closes his eyes. “Whatever you say.” His impeccable ability to always one-up me strikes again as he moves his pawn six spaces forward. Triumphantly, he declares, “Mr. White did it in the Kitchen with a knife.”
As the rules go, I show him my room card. He grins accordingly. “Alright.” He crosses it off his list.
“This is just unfair,” I complain as the die displays another one.
His shoulders move upward with a prideful shrug. “I’m just that good. I’m taking the secret passageway to the Conservatory, where I’ll suggest that Mr. White did it in the Conservatory with a wrench.”
Goodness, he may as well just take my whole hand.
He pulls his hat further over his face with a sly expression. “I’m already eleven turns away from winning.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Ha, look at your face! I beat you!”
Only barely. I glance sideways at my Investigator Sheet, which has been almost filled as much as his has.
Ranpo stops victory jumping on his off-white couch and plops into a sitting pose on it. His expression turns unhappy, but in a playful way. “It’s a shame your hair’s so long. I’d love so see the look of defeat in your eyes. But looking at the mud crust on you will have to suffice.”
Self-consciously I comb it over my eyes again. My eyes wander to the windows which are now free of falling rain, and then to my clothes which have dried completely. I’ve stayed here longer than I should.
“I should get going,“ I start and gather my things.
“Let’s have a rematch sometime, okay?” he calls as I leave the door.
I look down at my ensemble, and blush profusely. I forgot to give him his clothes back! What do I do? I’m already on my way out. It’ll be ridiculously awkward if I return after my mistake. Not to mention that I can’t just break the thin glass of the fun time we had if I mess it up with getting all worked up in front of him. Ahh, I’m freaking out!
“Don’t worry about it,” Ranpo assures me with his insane mind reading. “Just bring them to the bookstore at whenever your next shift is. And don’t forget to wash them!”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Then I’ll see you then.”
He waves me farewell, and I do the same. As I make my way to the train station, I replay the two hours I spent with him in my head. The fun I had was probably more than I’d had in my last few years. I haven’t allowed myself to spend any more time with anyone than I have. But for some reason, Ranpo wants to reach out to a friendless, penniless bookseller that looks like he hasn’t gotten over his teenage edge yet. Perhaps, if I keep my disguise up, we can become legitimate friends.
The likeliness he will figure out I’m a Supernatural is high, but the likeliness he will care seems slim. I’ll still keep my time with him minimal until I know I can put my trust in. But once I know for sure, I’ll be safe again. I sincerely hope with all my heart that we’ll be able to be friends. He’s the emotional and physical connection I’ve lacked for so long.