Chapter Text
The night is always colored grey. It is too poetic a thought for a gruff old policeman like Ginzo Nakamori, but it is what he thinks.
Moreso on nights like this, with all the lights out in his office and the soft glow of the moonlight filtering in through the blinds. It is too dark to read any of the files spread in front of him, but the department is short on money already. He doesn't want to switch on the lights. He doesn't want to go home yet either, smelling of alcohol with a five-o-clock shadow, to a daughter who will hide her heartbreak and disappointment behind a smile, an aspirin and a homecooked meal.
She shouldn't have to be looking out for herself alone, let alone him.
His awareness of the figure in his periphery comes in a quick burst, police instinct taking over. His gun is up before he can think, pointed squarely at the intruder's chest.
The white that fills his vision freezes him to the spot.
"You're dead," he says uselessly.
The ghost straightens from his lounge by the window. When did he get in? Between one heartbeat and the next it seems, or maybe he has always been there. Ginzo's head swims, and his grip on the gun tightens when the ghost saunters closer.
Ginzo can't focus on the ghost's face, even when he stops less than a foot away and leans over the desk, white-gloved fingers spreading over the scattered files. (Is it even a he? Ten years on the job and he never knew for certain. This criminal who changed faces and voices like hats, who could have been a man, a woman, a demon sent to torment him. Who sent his heart beating, adrenaline rushing in the chase.) He sees the monocle, the damn clover leaf charm that's haunted his dreams for the last decade, washed grey in the moonlight.
"I never took you for a gin kind of man," the ghost says, plucking the bottle easily from its half-hidden spot under the desk. He - his voice is male and unfamiliar, but that means nothing, not if this is who he thinks it is - sounds disapproving.
That flips a switch. "And I never took you for a disappearing act, you @$&@%%^!"
His shout is like a bullet's crack, breaking the mystical spell over the night, and blood thunders into his brain. He might be drunk but this? This is real.
The intruder seems surprised, bottle held loosely in white-gloved hands. Ginzo thumbs the safety back and aims squarely between his eyes, above that damned monocle.
Kaitou Kid throws back his head and laughs, clover charm shaking, and suddenly Ginzo sees in color. The silver shine of the monocle, the green clover, the tie that looks almost black in the moonlight but that he knows is a deep, blood red. Then the thief leans in suddenly, eyes dancing, a feather light touch on Ginzo's chest. Ginzo curses, lifting his finger from the trigger before he accidentally shoots.
"Well, Inspector Nakamori," Kaitou Kid grins a Cheshire grin, Ginzo can see his face now, and it looks young and vaguely familiar, but that doesn't mean anything. "I'm back now."
He draws back, slipping into the shadows, and disappears even with Ginzo staring so hard his eyes are watering.
"Be a dear and spread the word, would you?"
A heartbeat after he leaves, Ginzo curses and switches on the light and all the news channels, banging drawers open to dig out dust-covered manila folders. Heart pounding, he pours through old files with more focus than he has in years.
It will be morning before he sees the ruby broach on his lapel, pointed out by a nervous rookie, and he swears up a blue storm to get the Kaitou Kid Taskforce back in business.
Conan Edogawa has been clashing with Phantom Thief 1412 for months.
He's already deduced that this is not the same thief his father went up against years ago. There are similarities, of course - the outfit, the magic, the flair for the dramatic. The chameleon-like ability to change identities in seconds and magpie's eye for shiny objects.
But then there are the undeniable differences. For one, this Kid doesn't return what he steals, except the first time with Inspector Nakamori to announce his debut. For another, the 'no one gets hurt' rule the original had does not seem to be in effect, as proven when Kid 2.0 shows no aversion to using the real bullets in his arsenal - sparingly, but he uses them, as relayed by a furious Nakamori.
It's hard to tell from a distance, but Conan has been close enough to see that the costume is also slightly different - the undershirt and the band around his top hat are black silk, instead of navy blue. The tie's red is closer to blood than the cherry color he's seen in older news clippings.
This is about all Conan has deduced, and that Kid is terribly good at what he does, which is pretty frustrating.
(In another world, Conan also knew that Kid was a teenager from their first meeting, and had a near perfect success rate at foiling heists. In another world, Kid is new to the game and mostly self-taught, staying a hair's breadth ahead of the gaggle of meitantei after him through a combination of skill, sheer luck, and begrudging camaraderie. In this one, he makes less mistakes, stays steps ahead. Deals with problems more permanently.)
All in all, though, chasing Kid is almost fun. Pitting his wits against someone outside of the murderer-of-the-week (or day) gives Conan an undeniable thrill. There is always an edge of danger to it, but the feel is removed enough from seeing corpses day and night that Conan ignores it and plays the game every time he's invited.
Until the rules change.
Kid is hiding behind a mask, a young girl - and he really does like impersonating cute girls too much, but at least it's not Ran this time - and Conan, fed up and simmering with stress after a recent run-in with the Black Org, is about to launch a soccer ball at his smirking face, when Kid speaks. The words send ice shooting up Conan's veins.
"So you're her Silver Bullet."
Smoke fills the room and clears, taking Kid with it. Several minutes later, policeman storm in, shouting. Someone is saying his name, then a hand grips his shoulder.
Conan hasn't moved. His hands shake.
Aoko Nakamori hasn't really been paying attention to the news of a transfer student. Keiko and the others are in a tizzy, whispering theories around their desks. The boys have lost interest, since the transfer isn't going to be a girl.
Aoko thinks about what she's going to make for her dad's dinner. He spent the night at the office again. She caught him early in the morning, as she was leaving the house. He looked exhausted, but...excited, too. More than she'd seen him in years. He gave her a hug, then sent her off to school in a weirdly good mood.
She should make something nice. She isn't sure what the good mood means, but there is probably no harm in preserving it. Her pen moves idly in her math notebook, listing down ingredients. It's such a housewifey thing to do, so much that she hears an echo of teasing laughter. Briefly, fiercely, she misses her childhood friend.
She notices when the classroom goes silent. The new student must have arrived. She glances up.
Her pen clatters onto the desk.
"I'm Kaito Kuroba," says an unfamiliar voice from a familiar grin. It feels like he's only looking at her. "It's nice to meet all of you."
Three coffins are buried together, side-by-side in the rain.
There are murmurs around the gathered. They blur together, a giant amorphous blob of mourners in uniformly dark clothing. Kaito once found a leech on the sidewalk, red-black and bloated and squirming, before another kid popped it with a stick. He wonders when the people-blob will pop, and if he can go home when they do.
Aoko is hugging his arm and crying, her body trembling with every heaving sob. She's trembling so much that he is too, pressed so closely to her as he is, and her tears are staining his cheeks even though her face is on his shoulder.
Ginzo-ojisan has planted himself in front of them like a guard dog, accepting the condolences in his stead.
Kaito understands. He usually loves an audience, but he doesn't have any playing cards or roses with him. He probably can't put on a show right now, nothing that can come close to topping the last one.
It had been a spectacular show. So spectacular that Mom, Dad, and Jiisan never made it out of the explosive finale.
He looks up when he hears the raised voices. Mostly Ginzo-ojisan's, loud and angry, while the other person speaks calmly enough that they can barely be heard. Kaito watches, not really processing anything, until Ginzo-ojisan turns around. He deflates when their eyes meet, then makes his way over to Kaito and Aoko, the other person following a step behind.
"Kaito," Ginzo-ojisan says, then stops, like he doesn't know what to say.
The woman behind him steps up, crouching down to Kaito's level. That can't be easy to do in the shoes she's wearing. Aoko tenses next to him.
"Hello. I'm your new guardian. I was one of your father's students."
The woman's hair is cut short like his mother's was. She's pretty, he notes distantly. Like a movie star.
"I'm sure you have a lot of questions, but I can't answer all of them right now. After all," she holds a finger up to her lips. "A secret makes a woman, woman."
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The Clover Club: Named after a men's club in Philadelphia, this cocktail is traditionally made of gin, lemon juice, raspberry syrup, and an egg white.
Art by Edorazzi (Tumblr)