This fic
takes place during the crime of GS3 case 2, Stolen Turnabout. Spoilers for that case.
Sustenance
Part 1 - Luke Atmey
For several long, tense
moments, the faint echo of Atmey’s breath was the only
sound in the office. He told himself to
move over and over but the message never reached his limbs. His hands were still clutched tightly around
the heavy, hardcover records book, his feet rooted firmly to the ground. And despite the anxiety clawing at his ribs
he couldn’t take his eyes away from the scene he’d created.
Busujima’s corpse was growing stiff in a corner of the room, but
it wasn’t his grotesque, bloated face that held Atmey’s
strict attention. It was the slumped
pile of silk and lace at his feet. He
hadn’t realized just how hard he’d struck the Phantom Thief until now,
agonizing minutes later, with still no movement. His adrenaline was finally catching up to
him. With each passing heartbeat against
his temples his composure began to slip, faced with the possibility he may have
killed his young accomplice.
If Ron
was dead, there was no way to frame him for murder—how could two men kill each
other exchanging blows to the backs
of their heads? Atmey’s
mind spun as he finally tore his gaze away, sweeping the room. He hadn’t left any evidence of himself here, there was no way to link him to either murder. His plan could still be played out. There was no reason for anyone to suspect him
at all…
If Ron was dead….
Atmey shuddered, tossing the book away as he dropped to his
knees next to the young man’s crumpled form.
“Ron!” In a moment of thoughtless panic he shook Ron’s shoulder as if to wake him. When he realized what he was doing he quickly
stopped, and hesitated another moment in silence to see if the thief would
stir. But there was still no response,
and with a wary grimace he reached forward, carefully removing the polished
silver mask.
The disruption of Ron’s costume caused a little bit of his red hair to
stick out from the carefully stitched cowl.
His face…appeared calm, as if he were merely asleep. There was color in his cheeks. But Atmey was still
concerned; he tugged one of his gloves off, pressing his hand over Amgasugi’s nose and mouth.
Slow, shallow breath tickled Atmey’s fingers, and he sighed openly in relief. Quickly his mind arranged itself back into
order. His plan was working perfectly
after all. All he had to do was alert
security, make his escape, return to the exhibition, and the police would…
Atmey shifted on his knees, feeling a familiar anxiety
creeping over him. His stomach felt
hollow as he began to draw his hand back.
Ron’s cheek was soft beneath his own
coarse fingertips. He hesitated mysteriously, resting the backs of his fingers against Ron’s curved jaw.
It was the first time they’d
met face to face since that night in the alley.
Amgasugi looked just as young, as innocent and
foolish as he had then. And yet for the
last several months he had been the perfect solution, the answer to a
lifetime’s vexations. Atmey could not have asked for a more fitting partner, and
their fame would outlast even this unfortunate incident.
There was no reason to
believe that either of them would ever be that lucky again.
That was over, now. Ever since receiving the unwelcome green
envelope Atmey had acted on a flurry of instinct and
desperation, trying not to consider the consequences of this plan. Even if everything went perfectly, if he
remained unconnected to either crime and went back to work without a dent in
his reputation, it still meant his dream was at an end. No Kamen Mask meant
returning to seemingly ancient way of life, without flair or stimulation,
without recognition or respect…
Atmey stretched his fingers, gently tucking the errant
strand of red hair back into place. If
anyone could have understood the trepidation he suddenly felt, Ron could. The
game wasn’t even up yet and bitter, cold regret was already crawling into his
stomach. It hadn’t occurred to him until
now, watching Ron’s face, that
he wasn’t sure he could go back to that world.
The thought of giving up the last few weeks of glory for three decades
of failure and disappointment sickened him.
Ron must have felt the same way—it was why
he had come that night, to fight against the death of their drama. Why he had dared to risk his life for fame in
the first place, just like Atmey had.
But…no. Ron would soon be dead anyway.
The detective’s eyes thinned,
his lips twisting in a pained grimace of a smile. He almost laughed as he gently stroked Ron’s cheek with knuckles. Here was one man who understood him. For the first time Atmey
wished he had disclosed his identity to his oblivious comrade. Through his mind flashed briefly all the
possibilities he’d closed off, the heists they could have planned together, the
spectacle they could have orchestrated.
Hadn’t he crafted this
charade in the first place to give himself a chance of gaining people’s
favor? But what was the point, if in the
end all he could do was destroy the single person he trusted?
It had been…such a wonderful
dream.
Ron murmured softly but did not stir; the quiet sound of
his voice jolted Atmey from his musings, and with a
start he realized his hand was trembling, almost violently, against the younger
man’s face. He drew the offending limb
back and shoved it quickly into its glove.
“Ron….”
Atmey shook his head, feeling a cold sweat
break out on his brow as he clamored to his feet. “Don’t…don’t despise me.”
Atmey stumbled to the wall, still unsteady as he punched
the office’s emergency buzzer. Even having caused it the wail of the electronic siren made him
cringe away.
Ron
would never know who had betrayed him, Atmey told himself, as he drew a hand over his face and headed swiftly
for the door. He would be convicted
without ever having to lose…whatever respect he might have had in his rival of
so few weeks.
And even if the truth were
somehow revealed, at least that resentment would die with him.
Atmey fled, giving Ron’s yet prone form a wide berth. As confident as he was that his plan would succeed his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.