Chapter Text
Miles stood alone in his new living room, considering his options. In front of him were three unopened bottles, a revolver and a note.
The booze had been easy enough to acquire. Even in his early teens he had always looked older than he actually was, probably because of his grey hair, so it stood to reason that at twenty years old he would look older than twenty one. He looked old enough for the liquor store clerk not to ask for an ID at least. He had no idea what he picked, only grabbing three bottles at random while trying to look like he knew what he was doing.
The revolver had been a little harder to come by, but not impossible. He had recently gotten in contact with one of the police’s informants because of an ongoing investigation; getting the man to buy a gun with no papers attached for him wasn't all that hard, and it only took some extra dollar bills for him not to ask questions. The informant had also gotten him a box of bullets, despite his insistence that he didn't need so many. Only one would do, after all, but he kept that thought to himself.
And so there he stood, in the living room of his new house, unsure of how to proceed.
He grabbed the revolver from the table and inspected it with care for the first time since buying it. He already knew the basics of how to use it; one of many extracurriculars in the von Karma household had been shooting, and he was decent enough at it.
He slid the cylinder open: full. He raised an eyebrow; the informant must have wanted to do him some sort of favour, not charging for the six extra bullets. He slowly and methodically removed each and every one, holding them in his open hand before choosing one at random and placing it back in. He tossed the extra five to the floor. He wouldn't be needing them.
Miles spun the cylinder and quickly set it back in place before he could see where the bullet had landed. He raised the revolver to his temple, and took a deep breath.
Given how long he had been thinking about doing this, he found it quite surprising that he was hesitating so much. He had known he wanted to try this ever since he first read a potential suicide case file that mentioned Russian roulette as a likely cause of death. He had only lacked the means until then.
The independence that came from having a very well paying job had done the trick for him. At only twenty years old he had managed to rent a comfortable house and move out on his own, but more importantly, becoming a prosecutor had finally afforded him privacy. Even if he could have technically stolen a revolver from the shooting range at the von Karma estate, the entire endeavour would have involved too much anxiety and sneaking around for him to do things properly and not chicken out at the last minute because of the fear of getting caught. Not to mention the fact that there was little Franziska to consider, always running around the house at the most unfortunate times.
His thoughts briefly went to his little sister. How would she take it, should he actually succeed? She would surely call him a fool either way. The thought brought a small smile to his face, but it quickly vanished.
Yes, it was for the best that he had waited to do this. That way he completely eliminated the possibility of a child, his sister of all children, finding his body.
He straightened his jacket with one hand as the other one held the revolver closer to his temple. He hadn't changed his clothes since he arrived from work that evening. He had briefly considered changing; a good disciple of Manfred von Karma would never do something as foolish as this, after all, and his court outfit represented perfection. But he was no von Karma, and he knew better than anyone that he never would be, even without the constant reminders from his mentor and sister. Those clothes were all he had in order to somewhat belong. He could only strive for perfection in a way that would satisfy them, and in a twisted sense, he supposed that this was exactly how to do that. Punishing criminals in a perfect way was their ultimate call of justice. And he had never been punished for his crime. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.
Click. No bullet.
Miles let out a shuddering breath and collapsed on the sofa, panting. The revolver slipped from his grasp and fell on the cushions next to him. He turned his head to look at it; it sat quietly by his limp hand, mocking him. Daring him to pick it up again and finish the job.
He sighed, rubbing his eyes, and in that motion he realized that he was trembling. That wouldn't do; if his hand wasn't steady and the revolver misfired, he might be wasting his only bullet for the evening. He needed to catch his breath first, and find a way to calm down. Which was exactly why he had bought the bottles.
Much like the revolver, he hadn't paid much attention to them until then. He grabbed one at random and unscrewed the cap. That had been his only requirement upon purchase: being easily opened.
He smelled the liquor inside and grimaced. It did not bode well for an encouraging first experience drinking alcohol, but it smelled strong, and that was all he really needed. He poured himself a glass and took a small sip, only to immediately pull it away from his lips. Yeah, no, there was no way in hell he was drinking that. It tasted exactly how he imagined battery acid would taste like.
He went for the second bottle. He didn't bother to smell that one, pouring a glass and taking a drink before he could have second thoughts about it. He was pleasantly surprised this time; it was sweet, much sweeter than he knew a wine could ever be. He quickly finished the glass and poured another one. And just like that, glass after glass, he found himself with an empty bottle.
He frowned at the empty glass in his hand. Perhaps he should have bought two bottles of that wine instead of one. But then again, he'd had no idea if he would even like it when he bought it.
The revolver still sat by his side, a looming presence that called for his attention. But his curiosity had not been satisfied yet; he still hadn't tried the third bottle. He noticed that his hand was still a little unsteady when he went to open it, only he wasn't anxious anymore. Quite the opposite; he felt pretty relaxed, actually. Perhaps the sweet wine had been stronger than he first realized.
After some struggling with the cap he finally managed to open the last bottle, and didn't feel like pouring a glass this time. He took a sip straight from the bottle, and felt conflicted about its taste. It tasted artificial, like syrup, but it was not exactly unpleasant. He took a longer drink, and immediately regretted it; it burned down his throat all the way to his stomach, warming his chest in an uncomfortable way that almost made him choke. He checked the label as he coughed. What the hell had he picked?!
It took some effort to get his eyes to focus on the smaller print of the label. “Cherry flavoured vodka”. That's a thing?
He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and found that the motion made him dizzy instead. Maybe he was drunk already. It was his very first time drinking, after all.
He barely hesitated as he grabbed the revolver a second time. No need to keep drinking; poor coordination also meant a potential misfire, and the potential waste of his single bullet. He brought the gun to his temple, and fired.
Click. No bullet.
Now he was getting frustrated. Why wasn't it working? He glared at the revolver in his hand like it had personally affronted him. But such was the nature of Russian roulette; you never knew what you would get. It was a matter of sheer luck. He was starting to really resent his luck.
He lowered the revolver with a huff. What was he even trying to achieve by doing this? He hadn't really thought about it, beyond the fact that he found the game very appealing for some reason. His mind was fucked up like that, he supposed.
Deep down though, he knew what his goal was. He wanted to be punished for his crime. Even if a court of law had not punished him when he was nine, he knew that he still deserved it. And what was the worst punishment, if not the capital one?
But he couldn't escape the second big factor in his decision to play with fire, which was that he was a coward. He could've just as easily filled all six chambers of the cylinder with bullets to ensure with complete certainty that he would not fail, but he couldn't find the resolution in him to do that. So he had chosen to leave it up to luck instead.
Third time's the charm, called the revolver by his side in a sickeningly sweet voice. He ran a hand down his face. He suddenly felt exhausted.
Miles put the revolver back on the table, next to the bottles and the note. Two tries were enough for his first time playing the game. There would be other times, other years. Right at that moment, his top priority was sleep. He could barely focus at work after weeks of mostly sleepless nights. He needed to rest.
He considered his two remaining liquor choices. He ended up picking the vodka; the other one was so disgusting he was pretty certain he would end up dumping it down the drain the next morning.
The ticking clock on the wall across from him informed him that it was 7: 48 pm. He had planned for that too. In the undesirable event that he did in fact live to see another day, he knew that he had to fall asleep early. He had never had a hangover before, but he figured he would need some extra time to recover the next morning, so he had to wake up earlier than usual to account for that before going to work. A disciple of von Karma could not be late, or God forbid, take a day off. It would put a blemish on his perfect attendance record, one of unpunctuality, and laziness. An imperfection.
He took a gulp from the bottle in his hand, relishing the burning in his chest now that he knew what to expect. His mind had become foggy, and his senses dulled, and he found that it was exactly what he needed after a long day of trying to focus through the suffocating feelings of guilt and the constant thought of wanting to just die already. Death was supposed to be just like a long sleep, and by God did he crave sleep.
He didn't know how many more drinks he took, or how he ended up lying down on the sofa, or when the bottle of vodka slipped from his hand and rolled down onto the floor. It had probably made a mess, he thought distantly. Problems for future Miles to deal with.
His eyes had slid closed at some point; for a few glorious moments, his mind was completely blank. He passed out soon after, and for the first time in over a decade, he could sleep through the night of the 28th of December without dreaming.