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Oh, beautiful, beautiful Ranpo. How he has longed for this moment! How many years did he spend, withering away in a dirty room, counting cobwebs and watching the dust settle? Six, precisely six. He knows this because he kept a tally- Poe isn't one to be trusted, otherwise, when it comes to keeping track of the time. But oh, how he kept track of every single second, every single minute, every hour and day that separated him from Ranpo.
The smartest man in all of Japan -nay, in the whole world, Poe would argue. Seeing as he outwitted him, would that make him the smartest, now? That would make sense, and a part of Poe's heart sings with glee at the thought. The prestige, the honors, they would be his, all his, his his his his! His name would go down in history alongside Ranpo's, as the the only man to ever hold a candle to the other's prowess.
And yet, another part of him would feel dissatisfied. Dissatisfied, for in the end, the detective's undoing was not due to a lack of intelligence or wit, but rather, the loyalty he felt towards his companion. Ah, what a shame, that the axe struck him down before he even got the chance to show off his deduction skills. But he still defeated him, didn't he? Fair and square, details notwithstanding. The detective is dead, and so is that girl. All went according to plan. He has been avenged. The raging fire in his chest shall finally sputter out and know the peace of dim embers and charcoal.
But most curious, most curious indeed- what is this ache? What is this ache, somewhere deep inside his chest, that hurts a hurt he cannot name, as he strokes the detective's cheek?
Ah, and the cheek is so soft, so smooth, a faint warmth still emanating from it, indicative of the fact it has not been long since the soul departed. But the other...oh dear, what a mess it is. The axe has done away with the upper part of his skull, cracked the bone and marred the exposed brain. How dare it, how dare it-! He fumes at the mere thought: how dare a meager axe ruin something of such unfathomable value... oh, that must be it. That must be the reason he is so cross, despite this being the best day of his life.
By all means, due to the suffering he caused him, he very much deserved to have his face smashed in, and Poe himself admits that had he been given the opportunity, he would've swung the weapon himself. But, ah, there is this regret, this regret he cannot rid himself of: it bubbles up like acid as he strokes the younger's cheek, the other one, the one that is falling apart in clumps of flesh, revealing the muscle and sinew underneath, a shy bone even peeking in between the wet reds. This is the issue, this is what troubles him, because for all the hatred that Poe harbored for the man (a hatred he so meticulously cared for and cherished these six long, long years), he still respected him. Of course, any regular man would never be worthy of Poe's hatred, of his ire, of dying by his hands! And seeing the only one who had ever been bestowed the honor in such a sorry state... it isn't fair. For as much as he had longed to see that face of his twisted in fear and regret, there is no point, there is no point if that beautiful face is also twisted beyond recognition.
Poe sighs. What to do? He should ask Louisa, but he will not. She is no stranger to gore and guts, but would rather not have to deal with them for any more amount of time than strictly necessary. He understands.
He takes a moment to look him in the eyes- or, well, the single eye, the only one that is remaining (the other is hanging by a nerve, dangling to and fro, bloodshot red). Could he pop the other one back into the socket...? Poe wonders. He reaches a hand out, and- ah, the thing is slippery. But such a lovely color... even with no eyelids to shape it or lashes to frame it, the single orb still retains its magnificent emerald shine. How delightful.
A few attempts are made to put the organ back in its proper place, but the skull is simply damaged beyond repair, and refuses to accomodate what had once been a part of it. Poe rips the optic nerve out with a sigh. The empty socket stares blankly back, veins creeping around the tunnel of the hole, scarlet turning to black where the brain matter would be.
He can't help but notice how... malleable, it is. And wet, too. When he grips it a little just a little tighter, some of the remaining moisture drips down his fingers, alongside all the blood.
It's practically useless now... what a shame. The morsel sized eyeball which will no longer peer at him in that dreadful, conceited manner, that shall never again take in the details of a crime scene, sending all the information to its rightful owner so that he may come to a conclusion that could only be correct... is now in his hands, useless, no longer serving any purpose. It was a necessity... but a pity.
He holds it up... so round it is, so white and red and green, it stirs something in his soul. Ah, whatever could it be... no, perhaps, it is not his soul at all, but something just a little further down...
Poe licks his lips.
The body of the woman is disposed of quickly and efficiently. Poe does not particularly care what Steinbeck does with it: perhaps he'll chop it up and sell what he can on the black market, perhaps he'll throw it in a river and let nature take its course. Or perhaps... that Lovecraft fellow, he had heard, though perhaps it was only gossip among the other Guild members... oh, again, whatever, it's not like it matters. A very small part of him is sorry that another party had to get involved, but this has always been a possibility he had considered from the start. Where her corpse ends up is ultimately of no concern to him, and if she is digested by a large, unseemly creature, then so be it.
But Ranpo... of course, he has to take action, and has to do so immediately. Corpses and warm temperatures never mix, or at the very least, they never mix well (though the maggots and larvae would certainly disagree). Because he does not have the appropriate instruments readily available at hand (a lack of foresight on his part, but how could he have ever predicted his heart's sudden caprice?), he hurriedly stores him in the coldest part of the Guild's headquarters he has access to, the freezer room.
Though he is usually not fond of idle chatter and prefers to not converse with his fellow organization members, he takes many steps to ensure everybody knows that he is off limits.
(Most of them don't question it. The writer has always been a little... off, and storing a dead body in a cooler so he can do God knows what with it isn't really beyond what they had imagined him capable of. They do, however, start giving a very wide berth whenever he passes them by in a corridor or hallway. For a couple days, the door to the freezer remains untouched).
The preparations are undertaken hastily. First things first, oh dear, what to do with that face?
It is in... an even more pitiable state than before. Small crystals of ice cling to the frozen wounds, and the blood has long dried, encrusting his face in a wrapping most foul.
He scowls as he wipes away the grime with a wet towel- and, oh, he is cold, so cold. Stiff, so stiff; gone is the youthful, rosey tint of his cheeks and the healthy color of his skin (his soft, soft skin, it was so soft before, oh, will it return to the way it was? Poe desperately hopes so). Rigor mortis has long since taken a hold of his limbs, and now, whenever he attempts to move them, he's afraid the bones will start cracking.
He reckons that, much like the eye, a few things are beyond salvageable. That's fine, that's fine, that's perfectly fine, or it would be, if it weren't for...
The brain is perfectly visible, and what a lovely, healthy shade of pink it is, even in spite of the death of its owner. Poe traces a finger up the folds, following the way they curve and bend. Ah, this must be the frontal lobe, is it not...? And this, here, the parietal lobe. And just a little further down, the occipital lobe, the cerebellum-
Poe reaches a hand into the skull. Oh, this is difficult, far more difficult than he anticipated: there is not much room between the empty skull and the organ, and he has to force his hand inside, feeling and hearing the wet squelches, ripping apart a thin layer of fatty tissue and- oh my, was that a "crack" just now-?
Well, ultimately, even in spite of his rather barbaric methods, Poe succeeds in his endeavor. At one point, he required the aid of a pocket knife, but ultimately…he succeeds. He succeeds.
He admires the object in his hands. It is heavy in his palms, cold but soft. Truly...truly… breathtaking...
Sure, it is a little battered and worse for wear, due to circumstances both in and out of Poe's control... but ultimately, it does not take away from the awe, from the beauty. He is holding it! Holding it in his own two hands, with the very same hands he used to write his doom: he is holding Edogawa Ranpo. All that he was, and all that he could've been. Every thought, every deduction, every idea, every hope and ambition and every emotion. All of it. All of it in the palms of Poe's bloody hands.
It makes him giddy, for he is reminded once again of his victory. Of how he crushed the most talented detective the world had ever seen under his heel, and is now holding the physical, tangible proof of the deed. And what proof, what a trophy it is! He now understands the ways of the warriors of old. How they would hold up the head of their decapitated enemy for everybody to see, both foe and ally alike... and in the case of Poe, in the case of a rivalry which was fought not using blades or firearms but pens and papers... it definitely feels like the most suitable keepsake.
He holds it closer to him, tighter- smells it, takes a deep breath. He is unsurprised to find that the only odor he can make out is the faint one of blood (and another slightly tart one he can't quite place).
Oh, Ranpo, Ranpo, Ranpo, Ranpo! All mine, all mine, all mine to hold and gloat over, for only I have the right to do so, now. I am the only man to have ever bested you, and now I get to own you, every single little piece of you, mine forevermore. I will never share, even if you were to somehow miraculously return from the depths of Hades, I will never share, not even with you. I have earned this right. In the end, I won. I am superior to you. And thus, you are mine.
Isn't it wonderful? Such a shame you cannot see for yourself... such a shame.
Of course, Poe resolves the whole issue in a matter of days.
When your pockets are abundant with righteous dollar bills, there is very little anyone will ever deny you, and virtually nothing you can't get away with.
The man in charge of the embalming is one of very few words (if any at all): tall, large and stout, and with the ugliest gash running across his face Poe has ever seen, the wound sutured in a most half-hazarded and grotesque fashion (that thick black thread, and the unbecoming protrusions of skin pressed up against skin... Poe is paying him very, very good money. He better not dare replicate that disaster on his own face on his Ranpo).
Luckily, the operation goes without a hitch. Poe asks to assist, for he wants to make sure everything goes exactly as he wants it to, and the man (whose name he doesn't even know) just grunts in response at his odd request. Such a low, hoarse voice... Poe wonders if his tongue and throat have fared the same fate as his face.
The entire procedure is, however, actually a fairly dull one. Sans for the occasional grunt or huff, the man makes no attempt at conversation as he works with the corpse, and neither does Poe. He would consider pulling out his book, but he still wants to ascertain that everything goes as it should. And it does: the liquids are expelled (as are the gases) and afterwards replaced with a different set of fluids. Poe did some research on the subject, what was it again... ? Formalin mixed with a specific amount of alcohol, if he recalls correctly (alongside a number of other substances whose names Poe forgot as quickly as he initially read them).
It takes a long, long while (quite some prep work goes into the preservation of those who have passed, doesn't it? As if mother nature herself, rebels at the idea of keeping the remains of someone who is no longer on this earth around for any longer than strictly necessary. Poe loves said mother dearly, but just how cruel can she be? Ah, indeed, such cruelty towards her poor little children who wish to linger a little longer. He will have to disrespect her this time around, just as he has done many others).
His motives are never questioned, the man never inquires what his reasons for mummifying the corpse may be. At one point, Poe wishes to clarify that his intentions are pure, that he is no freak with depraved fetishes... but, ah, does it matter? Other people will never understand. They will never understand the depths of his emotions, why he needs to do this. Why he cannot simply discard the body of the man that has been his obsession for the past six years of his miserable life- indeed, they would not even understand the obsession itself. The desire. The hatred. They wouldn't understand. So there's no point in explaining, and perhaps even no need. For what right does the mutilated stranger who makes a living out of illegally stuffing corpses have to make any sort of comment, and what does it matter to Poe?
The last of the transaction is completed, and finally, he can bring him home. His Ranpo.
(At what point did he become his Ranpo, exactly? A voice in his head wonders. Perhaps, he always has been: his Ranpo, the man he spent so many years tossing and turning at night thinking of, whose chartreuse stare bore into his very soul. And perhaps the other never even realized it, not until his demise... but that's fine. But if there had been a way to- no, no, this was the only way. The only way to finally close this horrible chapter of his life and move on. Now he gets to reap the rewards and bask in his victory with his Ranpo, his Ranpo whose dead stare still elicits something cold and slimy and hurtful in his chest)
He careens the ornate black casket into his room. He's breathing heavily, the pants resounding even in his own ears, alongside the quickening "badum-badum" of his beating heart. An electric current flows in between his fingers as he comes to a halt, and lingers on the wood for a moment- before finally, finally, it is opened.
The breath which was heavy is quickly stolen away.
Gorgeous. Yes, that man deserved every single penny he gave him, and then some. He made him absolutely gorgeous. Even moreso in death than in life (perhaps because he had only ever truly belonged to him in death, and that makes the display all the more stunning in Poe's eyes).
The man had not only properly embalmed the corpse, but also conducted a marvellous reconstruction of his face, and somehow- yes, yes! So, so beautiful! Perfect, even! The gold (24 carats, only the finest Poe could get his hands on, he would settle for nothing less) woven into so many intricate shapes, replicating both the original features and adding new, original details here and there. Lovely little chrysanthemums near the cornea of his eye, ravens outlined on the metal curve of his cheek, and the cherry on the top? Ah, rather a grape than a cherry! But that would be doing it a disservice. A large emerald, of the brightest, most dazzling hue he could get his hands on. Real, of course. Perhaps not quite as piercing, and not quite the same color as Ranpo's original...but it would do. It's the only thing that could ever come close.
A work of art! A work of art that stirs the soul and soothes the senses, worthy of being exposed alongside any Mona Lisa or Giudizio Universale. (Not that he'd ever allow such a thing to be done. Poe was the one who beat him. Him and only him. Only he gets to see Ranpo. Only he gets to admire his remains)
Poe, ever the sensible man, has turned even his most hated rival into a work of art, as any true artist would. Even the byproducts of his hatred and mania have given birth to something magnificent! They have transformed ire and spite into a work worthy of the gods' envy!
Poe feels something like laughter crawling up his throat, and he lets it all out, chest heaving and hands clutching the sides of the casket, as he laughs. And laughs. And laughs. Laughs until his sides hurt, laughs until his throat is hoarse, laughs until he isn't sure why he's laughing anymore.
Once his fit has subsided, he leans forward, breaths hot and heavy on the other's cold body. He lingers. His heart is still beating, and it's beating fast.
There is a look in his eyes that would've scared him, had he seen himself in the mirror. But the reflections offered by the golden mask and emerald gem are far too muddled to act as a speculum. By the time he'll get to a proper mirror, he'll be too far gone to ever notice it again.
"Beautiful..." His voice is trembling, and so is his hand. He caresses the golden mask: it is smooth, oh so very smooth... though lacking in the particular brand of smoothness that characterizes Ranpo's actual flesh, lacking the feeling of cuticles and peach fuzz underneath his fingertips. He strokes the pale cheek. This one, yes, this one is what he desires the most... though it is cold. That is to be expected. But it is so cold, oh so very cold, was he stored inside a freezer again? That won't do, not unless in case of emergency...
"Oh, Ranpo... it was always meant to be this way, wasn't it? You and I, together... me, as the sole victor of our duel, and you, as... well, to be frank, I wasn't expecting to keep any of you around, but... as it seems, after all these years, one cannot let go of their own emotions overnight, no matter what emotions they may be. You understand, right? Not like you have a choice. But you understand that too... " Poe traces his eyebrow, all the way up the bridge of his nose, then down, down, where his cupids bow meets his upper lip. It, too, is cold.
"Are you wondering where the rest of you went? Since a couple parts of you are missing... Hehe... That's a secret. But they're far closer than you think. And I promise, I'm going to take very, very good care of them, forever. Just as I'm going to take care of you.."
Why is he so cold? Because he is a corpse, Poe, you fool, a voice quickly supplies, but. Why does it feel so wrong? He was so happy just moments ago. What is this wrongness, scratching at his ribcage and demanding to be heard, what is this... grief? How could it possibly be so! He is avenged, and he is contented. But why is something wrong?
"…Ah, pardon me. I'm afraid... I'm not quite sure what the matter with me is, actually. Haha. Perhaps, if you were still in possession of a brain to think and two eyes to see, you could use your ability and figure it out."
There is no answer.
Of course, Poe expected nothing else. So why, why the hell-
"Well, then again- it, it doesn't matter now, does it? Super Deduction is by no means infallible, for I have proven this. And you, my dear Ranpo, are the very proof of your ability's own flaws. For there is truly nothing so great and so perfect in this world... ah, one part of me is saddened by this revelation, the other, immensely relieved.
The rushing of blood is loud behind his ears. Nothing stirs.
"Ah, haha, my dear Ranpo, perhaps- is this your way of mocking me? Your final jest, as it may be? If so, it's not very funny, no, not at all. Though I wager you would find it very humorous… how no matter what, I cannot feel entirely satisfied. I have accomplished my life's goal, I have fulfilled the purpose I chose- nay, the purpose you imposed on me. And yet, I cannot smile without a heaviness in my heart. I cannot celebrate without the ghost of anguish peering at me from behind a corner, laughing at my sorrow."
Nothing stirs.
"It must be so funny to you! And especially after all the trouble I went through… the trouble to wait, the trouble to plan, the trouble to write, the trouble to find you, the trouble to kill you... after everything you put me through, dangling an offer of salvation in the form of my own happiness right in front of me, you still find ways to mock me. Are you laughing too, behind that corner! Are you laughing, Edogawa Ranpo?!"
There is only dust where a dead man lays.
"GO TO HELL! GO TO HELL, IF YOU MUST LAUGH! QUIT LAUGHING AT ME!" A fit of uncharacteristic rage seizes control of him, and with a shout, a loud crash and a bang, the casket and all its content tumble to the floor.
A large, solid body thumps and rolls over. Then other, smaller clangs and clatters follow suit. Poe doesn't take notice, not at first. All the different emotions brewing inside him swish and churn, making it hard to think, hard to speak, hard to breathe.
Somewhere deep down, he's aware he's acting the part of fool. Laughing at you? Who could possibly be laughing at you, Poe? There is nobody here, nobody except yourself and the body of the man you killed. But every fiber of his being, every atom and every molecule, is screaming. Each vibrating with a different emotion, until he's sure his body will collapse in on itself. But they all know, they're all so sure, that somewhere, somehow, the green eyes of Edgoawa Ranpo are boring into his soul, twinkling with that casually cruel mirth of his. And that all the while, he's laughing. Laughing just as he was a few minutes prior, perhaps even louder, even harder, because he had the last laugh, in the end. Poe thought he had won their duel, but hadn't even noticed that all along, he was doomed to fail. Ranpo had rigged it from the start.
Now, he shall never know happiness. He shall never, truly, be free. He has been cursed to live a miserable life, all because of him.
Him.
Him.
Something bright in the corner of his eye tears him away from the grim meanderings of his thoughts-ah, might that be-?
The emerald.
He takes a couple steps towards it, slowly. And though they may be as ginger as those of a feline, in the empty, quiet room, they are nonetheless loud, way too loud. Poe swallows, hand grasping at his cape-
…What... is he doing?
For what purpose did he buy this gem? What is it that is pushing him to act like a madman (or rather, to become one)?
Like a bucket of cold water, the dizzying notion of his reality settles in. The gemstone shines on, ever silent in its dazzling beauty. The lucky little stone which humans arbitrarily decided was worth more than its comrades, and thus sell for ridiculous, arbitrarily decided prices. And here it is, strewn on the floor, like any other old piece of junk, which it may as well be.
…Does this mean anything? It probably doesn't. Poe bends over to pick it up, examining it further.
He rolls it around in his hand; to the naked eye, it appears flawless. Surely, it must have imperfections, but humans are simply incapable of perceiving them.
And that's when he sees them again. Those godforsaken eyes, that gaze of his, etched into every side of the gem. And now, he can't escape them. No matter what angle he observes it from, no matter wether the light is hitting it or not, they're there. Staring at him, at his every move, taking him in from the inside out, and then him putting back together again.
But perhaps they aren't. Perhaps it's really just a stupid gem, just a somewhat aesthetically pleasing, yet expensive rock.
He guesses it doesn't matter, not anymore. That little moment of sanity already seems far gone. The lull of his own deranged musings are far too easy to succumb to. And in that sense, Poe has always been a weak willed man.
My Ranpo. Ha. He's an imbecile, and a mad one, at that, but that phrase alone is perhaps the most idiotic of all his reveries. Mine. Really? Under what pretenses has Edgar Allan Poe ever owned Edogawa Ranpo? Surely, it's only ever been the other way around. Ever since they locked eyes that fateful day.
But he's sure he'll come up with some excuse. And they all sound so delightful.
He can't wait to further partake in his madness. Otherwise, there will be no meaning to the corpse on his floor. There will be no meaning to anything he has ever done.
My dear Ranpo, those marble tiles must be so cold. Let's get you seated somewhere else, shall we?