Okay, Sara? This is for you. It's not Moppin Molly, but consider it part of your belated birthday fic package. Since it's about two and a quarter months after your birthday, you'll get an extra fic on down the road. (Which will be Moppin Molly if I can get the plunnies to cooperate. And Saguru. He's being a bit of a story hog at the moment. And Moppin Molly is not about him, no matter how much he claims otherwise.) But anyways, I apologize for the tardiness, and hope you enjoy! Happy Belated Two Months and Nine Days Birthday!
To everyone else: Apologies in advance for the angst. You've been warned.
Enjoy!
Letter: W
Theme: White
Summary: The walls are white.
xoxox
"White walls and ten foot ceilings
Harsh fluorescent lights
Am I just a prisoner here
Of my own device?"
xoxox
The walls are white.
It's the first thing he notices when he opens his eyes. Their empty brilliance, so blank, so cold, cause him to wince in their reflection of the harsh fluorescent glare. Behind closed eyelids he catalogues what else he noticed in the half second his eyes were opened. White walls, in-track lighting, seamless floor, 10 foot ceilings, no windows, no doors. He'll have to roll over to see what's on his other side.
The first thought that hits him is to wonder where the hell he is. Feeling light-headed and slightly nauseous (Just what did Snake hit him with?), he attempts to maneuver his arms under him to lift himself up. Unfortunately, his body is not cooperating at this time, please hang up and try again. Biting back a groan and an almost overwhelming desire to throw up last night's tonkatsu, he flops back to the floor. Daring instead to open his eyes a second time against the harsh light, he glances to his other side (same view, oh joy) and before the glare overwhelms him, catches a glimpse of himself. White nurse scrubs cover his arms. Same for the legs. On his feet are what look like cheap, five hundred yen tabis.
Shit.
The overwhelming brightness and nausea is completely forgotten as he focuses on more important issues, namely himself. Ignoring his body's complaints and pleas to just lay the heck back down, he sits up and does a quick inventory.
Clothes? Gone.
Monocle and top hat? Gone.
Card gun? Gone.
Smoke bombs? Gone.
Card decks? Gone.
Miscellaneous tools of the thief trade? Gone.
Emergency lock pick sown into underwear? (Quick check in pants) Gone.
Dammit. Irritation and a slight thread of fear worm their way behind Poker Face. The irritation is easy enough to understand and contain (He's Kaitou-friggin-Kid! He's not supposed to get caught!), but the fear not so much. It's bubbling up his throat in a tremble at this unusual predicament. A bullet wound he could understand. Lying dead on a skyscraper in downtown Ekoda is certainly within the realms of reason. Handcuffs, chains, threats, blackmail, yes. But this - dumped in a white coffin of a room, a nondescript change of clothes, no flunkies on guard (no door for that matter), no wounds, no threats, nothing but six blanks walls and silence. This is terrifying, if only for the possibilities. (Why would you lock people in boxes...unless you want to forget about them?)
…Subconscious, not helping.
But really, why is he not a chalk outline? Why is he not trussed up like a turkey on Thanksgiving and strapped to a steel table while a James Bond-esque villain lords above him with his death ray of doom pointed at his dashing top hat ranting on and on about his evil plans? Where's the ranting? Where's the pain? Aside from the nausea, he feels perfectly fine. Shouldn't the feeble-minded minions be beating him to a pulp right now?
For that matter, where are the goons? Looking around, it's readily apparent that he is the only occupant in the room. Shouldn't someone be watching him to make sure he doesn't escape? Not that he has anything with which to escape, but that's what the art of pick pocketing is for! How is he supposed to steal the keys out of here if there is no one to steal keys from? Someone might get the idea that they're not supposed to break out...
*Mental faceplant*
Well duh, that's kinda the point.
Okay, so he's stuck in a steel box, nothing at hand, no guards to manipulate, no windows, doors, or feasible air vents in which to crawl, break, or open to safety, no maligned demands or evil rants to ignore…
Hmmm, this could be tricky.
xoxox
Oh riddle me, riddle me, riddle me ree
I seem to be caught in a trap you see
xoxox
He's examined every inch of his cubic cell fifty-two times, and he has yet to find a chink in its armor. Without any gadgets at his disposal, he can't tear off the steel trim surrounding the built in ceiling lights, disable the electrical circuits, cause a temporary black out, and race out the door when someone has to come in to fix the problem. The door, cleverly hidden amongst the white-walled steel plating, is fully mechanized A36 carbon steel, hardwired into the very walls and appears to operate on a remote operating system. Sadly, that operating system seems to be on the other side of his cell. Can't exactly hack a door if you can't reach the keypad.
Now he knows what the inside of a safe feels like. Heh. This must be what it's like for all his heists. Too bad there's no Kid to steal him away. Guess this gem'll just have to steal itself.
xoxox
If hope is a waterfall
I think it's being dammed
xoxox
He's staring at the wall again. The glaring white wall within which the mechanized door is confined. This time he's going to catch whoever put him in this monochromatic cube and get out, regardless of any amount of knockout gas pumped in through the air vents. He will.
He will.
Thirty-fifth time's the charm, right?
xoxox
Would you rather be ignored by a crowded ballroom
Or invisible to one under an endless sky?
xoxox
The silence eats away at his sanity one nerve-ending at a time. For a man who's always catered to an audience, been the center of attention, hogged the limelight, this lack of outside stimulus is torture. What's a magician without a stage, a performer without his adoring fans? What's Kaito without his daily mop chase? It sucks to realize how much he needs people, and he tries not to focus too much on Aoko and Mom when that thought occurs. It gets hard to breathe around the sudden lump in his throat.
He doesn't even have a deck of cards to occupy his hands and mind. He's always had a deck on hand for as far back as he could remember, red decks, black decks, floral prints, blue bicycles, anime, see-through, Miss February decks, the whole nine yards. More decks than he could possibly ever need or use in ten lifetimes, compared to his one. A deck for every occasion, every trick, every day of the year. Every sparkle in Aoko's eye. Every smirk on Hakuba's face. Every foul epithet in Nakamori's repertoire. And now he's down to none.
He'll catch himself occasionally shuffling a deck that isn't there, fanning out cards that don't exist in one of his vast repertoire of tricks. Laying out cards for a Poker Player's Picnic only to realize a second too late that there's nothing to change, no card to mark or slide. It pains him to think he might forget these change-ups, the subtle feel of glossed paper against his calloused fingertips. He misses what he took for granted so damn much. Heck, he's even tried to make a deck of card out of toilet paper and blood, but they always fall apart in the shuffle.
xoxox
And if that diamond ring turns to brass
Momma's gonna buy you a looking glass
And if that looking glass should break
xoxox
He wonders if he shuts his eyes if it all won't go away and when he opens them again, this will have been nothing but a bad dream. Just a bad dream.
"Let me out, let me out! For the love of Kami-sama let me out!"
Just a dream, just a bad bad dream.
xoxox
Around and around and around they go
Where the hands stop, nobody knows
xoxox
Time passes, one agonizing second, hour, day at a time.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
It's beginning to drive him crazy.
xoxox
I'm dying, won't you save me?
Or will you stand around and cry?
xoxox
He's heard it said that isolation is a form of torture. To stick someone in solitary confinement, no interaction, and deprive them of their senses (no sounds, no colors, no smells, no one to touch) has been cited to lead to mental deterioration, depression, you name it. Stimulation is essential for strong mental health, and denying a person any sort of interaction is one way to break their will. Drive them insane. Leave them a broken shell on the floor. He'd like to attest the actuality of that statement.
He's losing his mind. His memories, to be more precise.
It started off slowly - a name, a fact, personal preferences or habits. Little things he'd always taken for granted but now scramble to retain. Things like the exact shade of Jii's hair, the pitch of Keiko's laugh when someone tells her a joke, the number of furrows in Hakuba's brow after he's dyed the Brit's hair flamingo pink. When he first realized he's forgetting, he stayed up for what seems like days, chanting their names over and over. Aoko, Hakuba, Mom, Keiko, Tantei-kun, Nakamori-san, Jii...the list goes on and on.
He feels like a drowning man clinging to the iceberg of his melting memories. No matter how hard he holds, they slip away one precious drop at a time in this time of global warming, shrinking his mind, his hopes, dipping him ever deeper into that sea of insanity.
He's beginning to think he'll never get out, never escape from this cement coffin. Too bad it won't be the last.
xoxox
Tick, tock, tick, tock
I think it's time I murdered the clock
xoxox
Every time he awakes he repeats to himself his truths. "My name is Kuroba Kaito. I am 17 years old and a student at Ekoda High. My hobbies include magic, gymnastics, and rendering the term impossible obsolete. My best friend's name is Nakamori Aoko. We've been best friends since I gave her that rose under the clock tower. I love her. When I get out of here, that's the first thing I'll tell her. Then I'll sweep her off her feet and kiss her...or flip her skirt, it's hard to say. Hopefully she doesn't hit me with her mop. Her father is Nakamori Ginzo, head of the Kaitou Kid Task Force. He smokes Marlboros when he can get away with it, and curses something awful when he can't. His best epithets come out on heists. My father was Kuroba Toichi, the first Kaitou Kid, aka Phantom Thief 1412. I am the second. He was the best magician in the world, the Master of Illusions. My mother's name is..."
xoxox
Tick.
Tock.
Let me off.
xoxox
As time passes, their faces fade. He doesn't remember whether Hakuba's eyes were blue or brown, if Nakamori-san had a mustache or a beard, how Aoko would part her hair. Keiko's nothing more than a name to him now, something familiar but faceless all the same. He knows her name because he should, not because he does. It's hard to explain. All he truly knows is his memories; his friends are slipping away like sands in an hourglass, falling through the cracks in the glass to disappear forever. Time is robbing him of everything, and he traitorously wonders whether it wouldn't be easier if he decided not to care.
One day he just breaks down, Poker Face be damned. Let me out, let me out, let me go Home please, for god's sake let me out of here, let me out right now, right now, I want out of here now, goddammit, please, please, let me out. His hysteric cries and broken sobs echo in the silent, sound-proofed room as he beats his hands into broken, bloody pulps against the walls, the floor, himself - anything and everything he can reach. But nothing breaks, no one answers. He's left alone an inconsolable wreck in the corner of his cubic crypt.
xoxox
Tick, tock, tock, tick
Time's running by, it's making me sick
xoxox
As sanity slips through his fingertips, he clings to the memory of Aoko as his lifeline. Aoko, with her wild, unmanageable hair, her infectious laughter, her steadfast stubbornness, her inherent belief in right and wrong. Her hatred of the Kaitou Kid. Her ability to cheer him up when things are at their worst. The only one who could tell when something was wrong behind his Poker Face. The way she'd stamp her foot as she burned the gingerbread men every Christmas. The fire in her eyes as she attacked him with her mop. The bashful smile she'd grant him when he honestly complimented her. He clings to all these memories and more because she's the one who keeps him from teetering over the edge. He's always trusted her to keep him in line. Why not with his sanity?
xoxox
How many sands are in an hourglass?
How long does it take to tell the time?
xoxox
Some days he ponders how long he's been in this cell. Days, months,...years? He doesn't know. There's no watch, no grandfather clock or tear away calendar for him to keep track of the seconds, minutes, hours passing by. They, whoever They are, always scrub the walls clean whenever he tries to record the passing of time, meals, sleep. And he never catches them at it. He's pretty sure They must drug his food, but he can't not eat. Okay, well he could, but that wouldn't get him anywhere. He has to be ready for when They screw up so he can make his escape. (And he will escape…won't he?) So what if he loses his sense of time in the process?
He once tried to count the passing seconds...one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi...figuring he'd become his own time piece, and actually got pretty far along (if two hundred fifty-six thousand, five hundred and ninety-eight Mississippi, is pretty far along) until he wondered exactly how precise his seconds were being measured. Could he state the time to the millisecond? (Two hundred fifty-six thousand, five hundred and ninety-eight point zero zero seven Mississippi, two hundred fifty-six thousand, five hundred and ninety-eight point six four nine Mississippi a British voice recites in his mind.) The thought has him breaking down in laughter and tears without knowing why.
He doesn't count the seconds after that.
xoxox
It's in our dreams we know the truth
And in our waking we despair
xoxox
He escapes his cell through dreams. Kuroba Kaito may be imprisoned within white-walled, soundproof, silent walls, but in his dreams there is nothing but color, chaos, orchestras, and Freedom. There, he flies through the night on neon-blue wings (not white, never white, he's sick of the color White) playing tricks and pranks to the delight of his adoring fans. Certain people (one cursing, one short, one...British?) chase him through the kaleidoscopic spectrum, but he won't be caught. He's Kaitou Kid. And Kaitou Kid always gets away.
In other dreams, he delights in chasing and being chased by a blue-skirted Valkyrie. With a simple flick of the wrist he flips her skirt to the heavens, catching a glimpse of the most amazing assortment of underwear ever imagined as she screams like a banshee for his head. A mop, her weapon of choice, comes swinging for his head as she screams obscenities he should be too young to hear, but he ducks and laughs and waits for the next attack. It's funny, her anger, the way her whole body lights up with determination as she swings with a vengeance, but she never asks for an apology. At the end of their mad chase, she always forgives him. Every time, with her beautiful, radiant smile. He loves to see her smile.
But not all of his dreams are pleasant. In his nightmares he runs: from the dark, from the shadows, from the enemies that lurk beyond the corners of his eyes. From the white, silent hands that seek to shackle him in place. Tear away his freedom. Lock him in an empty box and throw away the key. They show him his future, the endless days of monotony, silence, the screaming that shall never be heard. So he runs. He runs and he runs, desperate to escape that horrid existence, but he's always caught. He's wrapped in unbreakable chains and dragged into an ivory coffin, locked in with no way to escape. The air warms as he uses up his oxygen supply, banging on the lid screaming to be heard as the pitter patter pitfalls of dirt impact the surface as he's buried alive. These dreams leave him gasping for breath, heart-racing and adrenaline high, nail-bitten fingers curled into fists, leaving bloody crescent moon imprints upon his palms.
He can never fall back to sleep after these dreams, not with his fight-or-flight instincts on red alert, but he prefers these nightmares to the dream of his Valkyrie crying, sapphire blue eyes wavering in the onset of tears as she begs him in choking sobs to tell her who she is. "Who am I? Who am I?" she cries, she pleads but try as he might he can't answer. He can't recall. "I don't know," he whispers. "I don't know." This dream leaves him waking to tears and the feeling that he's lost something precious, something treasured.
"Who am I?"
"I don't know."
"I don't know."
xoxox
The world is full of terrible things
Murderous kings, mafia rings
And each day undoubtedly brings
Even more terrible things
xoxox
There are many things that scare him - his confinement, his fading hope of escape or rescue, the drowning silence in the walls and himself, his slipping grip on sanity, the weathering of his memories to life before this spacious coffin. But perhaps what terrifies him the most is the uncertainty growing in him. The confidence in him that buoyed the truths he'd always relied upon. It's finally begun to crack.
He woke up from slumber just now and couldn't remember his own name. A name came to mind after a few hyperventilating seconds, but that lapse in time was long enough to make him question its validity. How can he be sure? How can he know that he's really Kuroba Kaito?
Is he Kuroba Kaito?
xoxox
Yesterday upon the stair
I met a man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
I wish he wouldn't go away
xoxox
Sometimes he ponders whether it wouldn't be better to end his life, end the white and the silence, the monotony caging his soul. Anything has to be better than this. All he'd have to do is clog the toilet, jam his head into the bowl and let water and his lungs do the rest. But no, a voice always whispers in his mind. No one gets hurt. (Not even you.) It sounds like a truth, a law, a vow. That whisper always stills his hand. He can't find it in himself to break the truth - it's the only one he has.
xoxox
On the edge of insanity, I'm finally free
Too bad I'm so gone that I'll never see
xoxox
There was fish in his lunch today. He stared at it for some time feeling like there was something he should remember, some vital intelligence or fact he should recall, but like most things these days, the memories slip through his fingers. He attacked it warily with his chopsticks.
Hmmm, not bad.
xoxox
Some things are sacred
Raised up on high
When all else is forgotten
You'll somehow survive
xoxox
Sometimes in his waking dreams, he converses with a tangle-haired slip of a girl. Her face is nothing but a blur, but she has the most musical laughter. He tells her all the jokes he can remember to hear that wondrous sound. It's the only thing he looks forward to in this endless monotony of white-walled silence.
xoxox
Sweet Sanity left me long ago
What do I do if she says Hello?
xoxox
It's the noise that startles him. A foreign invader upon his ear drums, this click and swish that break like gunshot through the eternal silence. The sound of a mechanized door opening, not that he recalls. A figure stands in the doorway. Average height, nice curves, green fatigues (GREEN!), slim hand pressed against a wound in her left side. The other hand is pointing a gun in his direction. She appears on edge, frazzled - if her auburn tresses are anything to go by. Such a soft, tangled mane. It looks right on her. She glares in his direction. "Hands up and don't move! No funny business you hear me?" Her voice growls out the words with a note of restrained pain.
It hurts. Oh Kami-sama, oh Kami-sama, it hurts. The noise hammers like a jackhammer in his ears. Make it stop, make it stop. His hands instinctively come to his head, trying to block out the noise. The woman pauses, gun wavering as she takes in her surroundings and his attire. "Are you okay?" she asks in a softer tone. Too loud, still too loud. He shakes his head to drown out the sound.
She mistakes his shaking for something else. "Look," she murmurs in a comforting tone, "I'm going to get you out of here. I'm searching for someone, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I took a detour on the way. Do you think you can stand?" Her free hand reaches out for his wrist. The barest brush of fingers against his skin.
Warmth.
Sensation.
Physical contact.
His head whips up, hands pushing her away as he skitters for the corner, as far as he can get from this invader. Eyes warily watch as she picks herself up off the floor, confusion radiating with pain off her form as she turns in his direction. "Now why did you do that, baka?" she questions him. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm the good guy. Don't you want out of here?" She huffs, then winces at the pain from her left side. "Of course I find the obstinate one," she mutters under her breath.
The noise is still painful, jarringly so, but he's starting to get used to her voice. If it didn't hurt so much to listen, the sound might almost be pleasant. She seems like a nice person. He raises his head for a better look in her direction. A dark stain (Blood? A quiet voice murmurs with concern in his mind) mattes the shirt to her left side, bringing to light those curves he'd noticed on her before. Her throat tightens to hold in a sob while she presses against the bleeding wound. Her lips are a fine line in pain, apple blossom pink in hue leading up to cherub cheeks and eyes that are a study in sapphire. Brilliant blazing gems of a hue found only in 120 carat jewels. They sparkle, they shine, they mesmerize. He can't tear his gaze away, not even when those orbs catch him in the act.
An indrawn gasp. Those sapphire eyes widen in shock, disbelief, long-lost hope, water pooling in their azure depths. He hears the gun clatter on the floor. "Kaito?" she questions, she cries, she whispers. Tears begin to stream from those heavenly orbs. Eyes he can't tear away from, that he could gaze on forever. Such hauntingly beautiful eyes. The eyes of a Valkyrie, eyes of blue, eyes of a treasure to be cherished forever. He doesn't want to ever stop looking in her eyes.
She reaches out a hand towards his crouching form in the corner. "Kaito...Kaito, is that really you?" He backs away from that encroaching hand as far as he can. She pulls back stung. "Kaito, what's wrong?
"Who are you?" the words slip out quietly from his dry, chapped lips. Startled, he flinches and tries to peer down at his mouth. He didn't mean to speak, didn't know he could speak, but apparently his mouth has a mind of its own. But now that the question is out there, he is somewhat curious...
Looking up into her bloodshot, bleary eyes he whispers a question. Eyes widen, and water trickles down from her heavenly orbs, caressing the curves of cheeks frozen in grieving shock. She falls onto the floor, legs giving out from underneath her as his question takes hold. Those cherry blossom lips move in mimicry of words, but no sound escapes her pouting mouth. She's limp as a rag doll, all spitfire purpose extinguished in the wake of a storm. All that's left are horrified eyes frozen on his fallen form. Not knowing what else to do, what caused this reaction, he asks her his question a second time.
"Who's Kaito?"
…Yes, I'm evil. Shut up.