it takes 10 years to rot a man
Based on rp with Cugami.
Disclaimer: Neither Jiraishin nor SD is mine.
The first time he kills someone, it happens almost by accident. Fresh from training and set to directing traffic, Youhei is not expected to do much but stand in the middle of a street, look shiny, and wave his arms. He is not issued a gun. His rank is too low. He is not even supposed to touch one.
A store robbery during midday traffic puts an end to that.
Rolling bodies, hysterical screams and three people are dead before Youhei can sprint across four lanes, dodge cars that have no business traveling at the speed they're traveling and clothesline the first of the running thugs. A spinning kick takes down the next and then Youhei's down himself, grappling with a large bull-like boy who can't seem to decide between trying to gouge his eyes out or ripping through his throat with his teeth.
There's a gun mixed in there somewhere, a blurred bit of icy cold metal pressed up against his hip like the caress of a cock. Bull-boy's hot, panting breath is bizarrely sweet smelling as he worries Youhei's skin with blunt teeth and large hands slam him down onto the pavement again, and again, and again. The bright balloon of pain brings the expected endorphin rush and an extra burst of welcome strength. It takes several futile elbows to the face and a punch in the kidneys for Youhei to realize the bull-boy is so tanked on drugs, he doesn't feel a thing.
Rich brat with daddy's gun and a brain gone dead from some cocktail mix of chemicals a friend of a friend's friend had given him. Rich brat who wants to be the Big Man in town, packing a pistol penis and a warm body pinned squirming beneath him. It sparks something in whatever part of his brain that can still function and hasn't been completely fried in a chemical rush of electric sensation.
Youhei almost chokes as the barrel is shoved between his teeth.
The world slows its spinning, time screeching to a standstill as dilated eye meets dilated eye and Bull-boy's lips mutely form the words, "Suck. Me."
Halt. Frozen minute becomes a false hour. A silent eternity hangs between them as Youhei's frantically ticking brain turns an abrupt left and everything goes silent.
Then time speeds up in a blurring rush of red and icy chill.
Youhei snaps the boy's wrist and in the next moment has turned the pistol back on him, firing at point blank range. He's not been allowed a gun and has barely touched one outside of academy-but there is no need for good aim at such a short range.
Later, as he sits in the passenger seat of a superior's car and wipes the gore off his face, he reports that it was in self-defense. That years lurking in arcades had taught him the proper handling of a gun. That there was really nothing else he could have done. And then he is throwing up on the side of the road with the other officer patting him on the back and offering kindly words.
Within a year and a half, Youhei is moved from traffic cop to patrolman.
His stomach still hurts with increasing regularity as trouble and blood and dead people seem to find their way into his lap with such frequency that, were he a superstitious man, he would swear he had stepped on a god's toe somewhere. He solves this little problem by merely eating less. And less. He eats, of course. He never goes as far as to actually starve himself... not to death.
As he cheekily tells a girl standing on the edge of a roof on a tall building -- starvation is the polite death.
He no longer bothers to even pretend politeness.
Three years later, he goes from patrolman to detective. His stomach upheavals eventually reducing to a constant, accustomed ache that he has finally managed to maintain at controllable levels.
A pregnant woman's husband. The psychotic. The sane. The rapists. The pathetic. An innocent bystander. Every few months, another one hits the ground in a spray of red. And it is with each bullet through each skull, or back, or heart, that Youhei learns ever more about the frailty of life, the frivolity of man, and the thing that drives people to continue living. The mental gap he places between those who kill and those who are killed grows steadily wider.
Five and a half years later, he is in New York, standing on a ferry as he tells a girl who is a murderer, who is not aware she will die in a few days or that he will be the one bringing death to her, "Killing isn't so difficult once you get past the first one." And he almost, almost smiles.