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Poe is not a man with control over his emotions, or really any aspect of his life. He's volatile, he's eruptive, and--worst of all--has a terrible case of self-loathing.
The detest for himself can easily be traced to the many misfortunes that plague his life, or it can be as simple as the byproduct of his very existence. It's plausible enough. Oh well. Some people just can't help these sorts of things, you know.
At a time, he had tried to correct these wrongdoings, whether or not they were caused by his hand. Fixing mistakes was like a goose chase: ineffectively trying to string back together relationships and occupations and his own self-esteem in some horrible method of trial-and-error (and god had there been errors). Whether the issue be a rotting relationship (romantic or platonic or familial--they were all deteriorating), or that stress had been beating him down, or he had been slandered by yet another competitor--he had desperately tried to salvage the tatters of his life.
But nothing worked. There was nothing he could mend. Phone calls to a (no longer) loved one still went unanswered. Stress did not waver even after his work was finished, as if it lingered in the air like static. Gossip still murmured behind his back of how he was "losing it", even in the office of his own publisher.
Why? Why could he not fix any of the wrongs in his life?
The conclusion, of course, can only be that he is the perpetual issue. And when one comes to such a conclusion… well, that's when the anger at oneself begins to build up, until you can't even look at your own face in the mirror.
He's simply utterly terrible, and not wise enough to handle any form of situation.
Including this one.
It had been a simple battle of wit. Two minds pit against each other to prove who is superior, who can better solve a mystery. The opponent: a man by the name of Edogawa Ranpo. Rumor had it nothing could compare to the man's intelligence.
Of course, with such a rumor and such low self-esteem, Poe shouldn't have gotten his hopes up in the first place, for that was bound to be his downfall. But he had the slightest glimmer of hope that, perhaps, by winning this match he could regain a bit of the dignity he sparsely held. He could prove he's worthy. (Worthy of what? Respect? Pride? Love? Who knows? He's desperate at this point.)
The match had gone fine. They had been tied neck-to-neck, steady progress had been made, and--damn it all--he had been smiling.
And then he lost.
He could have been mature about it. He might've had the power to act mature about it, too, if only he wanted to handle the failure maturely. But he didn't. He didn't because he's exhausted of constantly losing and constantly having a void in chest and stomach, and he no longer possesses the energy to smile and nod along to everything.
He could've been defeated gracefully. But that's another thing he doesn't do. No--instead he refused to congratulate the victor--refused to even shake his hand and say "fair game" (because, to him, it hadn't been fair in the slightest). Instead he storms out the room without glancing back. He's petty and he knows it. If he looks back, he'll just have to face the humiliation, and he'd rather avoid it, thank you.
The first step out the door wracks nausea. His vision blurs slightly at the edges, and a familiar buzz swarms in his head. His brain becomes a melting pot for all sorts of negative emotions he can barely label.
Of course he had lost to the famous Ranpo. Of course he had lost just because he's himself. Why had he even bothered with the competition? Everything--everything he had worked for--for nothing. Countless hours did he spend training eye and brain to pick up the smallest of details and to connect them together artfully for answers to mysteries.
Hell, he wasn't even entirely keen on detective work (he'd rather be the creator: the mastermind). So why did second place hurt so much? Second place doesn't mean a thing to him. It just, once again, proves how horribly useless he is (because if someone surpasses him, surely there's no good reason for him to be around--that's just how two-sided his mind is).
Did that man--Ranpo--go through grueling hours of sharpening his mind to win? Poe doubts it. It probably comes natural for him, and the detective competition was no more than a game of checkers to him.
And for that, Poe's hatred begins to boil. He doesn't quite know whom the hatred boils for, whether it be for Ranpo or himself. It just does. Maybe both, simultaneously. Maybe Poe just hated the entire ordeal.
Now--Ranpo had always been a man Poe admired and idolized from afar. With such a brilliant mind, it's difficult to not get magnetized to the concept of it. It's difficult to not place it upon a pedestal. Ranpo is the epitome of wit, and this is easily recognizable to Poe. Of course it is--he just experienced the awe of it firsthand. From the beginning, Poe knew there hadn't been a chance of success.
Perhaps--despite knowing all odds are against him--that's why every fiber of his being develops the insatiable urge to surpass even Ranpo. To dethrone him. To take the confidence and security for himself.
It's a stupid idea. Deep down, Poe knows this. He's lost practically everything at this point, though, so could it really hurt to try? (Yes--the answer is yes, and this is also something he knows deep down, but now he is intoxicated by revenge and the hunger for superiority. His entire life is one big, miserable failure. This is his last chance for redemption.)
When Poe returns home that evening (not technically home, rather a hotel in Yokohama)--he breaks. There's a pressure in his chest and he cannot properly breathe. It's almost as if he's been holding his breath since he left the damned competition (well, his breathing had been irregular, so it's similar enough). He has the urge to cry and cry--to bawl his eyes out in attempt to relieve some form of emotion he'd be better off without.
He loses the balance necessary to stand, and, for support, crashes against the wall. Still weak in his knees, he slides down and sits completely on the floor. His hands and face meet with a white-knuckled grip, fingernails indenting little crescents into his own skin. His tears collect messily in his palms, overflow, and spill over.
The momentary sadness swings back to the previous anger. Why couldn't he--for once in his miserable fucking life--be great at something, for just this once? Did he just lack the heart? Had he already spent his heart dripping with anguish on every other issue that came his way; did he force the last of strength and passion into the salvaging, that he had run dry and is now simply functioning on emptiness? Is that it? His exhaustion renders his efforts useless?
Why couldn't he perform a simple task--a deduction, an analysis of surroundings--so effortlessly and flawlessly and beautifully like that accursed Ranpo? He's doomed to be inferior--that's it. He's doomed. Born bad.
Life is just testing him once again--mocking him--trying him until he'll finally heave over and die. At this rate, he'll rather have that sooner than later, thank you. (Is he overreacting? Of course. That's just his general way of approaching issues: overreacting until he escalates to a place he'll regret and cannot reverse.)
There comes a point he cannot cry anymore for his tear ducts have dried, and he remains stationary to wait for the shuddering to subside. He now has the consciousness to notice the throbbing, sharp headache drumming in his brain. Hands are pried away with caution, as if removing them from his face would cause him to physically break to pieces.
Freed hands move to the wall, supporting his sluggish weight so he doesn't fall over, and eventually he musters the strength to drag himself to the hotel bathroom. He doesn't look at or in the general direction of the mirror. He hates the face of the fool that stares back. Instead, he flips on the faucet and splashes ice cold water onto his face. It remedies the hotness of his cheeks, but does not immediately erase the congested feeling in his nose and eyes.
Relief is temporary. With a cleared mind, there is now more room for newfound negativity. As Poe is naturally brimming with resentment and high strung regret of humiliation, his mind flickers back to the competition from earlier that evening, fretting.
It's then the second wave of despair hits him.
Now, despite being aware he is the root of his own problems, that will not stop him from trying to pin blame on others. Blaming others is a temporary distraction from the burden. He is exhausted, and does not want to deal with the heaviness on his shoulders that stems from self-loathing and guilt.
So--Ranpo is the problem, then.
He's the obstacle between Poe and a sense of worth and accomplishment. Perhaps that's a lot of stretching of ideas on Poe's part, and a lot of jumping to conclusions, but it's what he settles for.
With his one-track mind, he then vows whilst gripping tight to the rim of the sink--so white-knuckled, one might think his skin will split--that he'll set his efforts into staking revenge on the man. He'll defeat him. Spite shall be his motivator, because nothing works as well as spite does.
Perhaps he'll even switch tactics; he will not compare his deduction skills to Ranpo's, no--he shall be the mastermind and create the mystery. The mystery will be so intricate and refined, that not even Ranpo and his god-like Ability--Super Deduction--will be able to comprehend it. Hell! Poe will use his Ability, Black Cat in the Rue Morgue, to turn the tables into his favor! (It's not cheating, he swears. Ranpo is an Ability user as well. Surely, like this, it would only be fair.)
Super Deduction is the one true thing in this entire wretched world worthy of praise and acknowledgement. Poe knows this, but perhaps--just perhaps--if he could outsmart Ranpo, he would be worthy, too. To be worthy of recognition and validation is the only thing he yearns for, after all, so wouldn't defeating Ranpo be the key to fulfillment?
Time passes, and he returns to America. He sets his scheme into action. A novel--he writes a novel as the ultimate trap. This will be Ranpo's challenge, and what a wonderful challenge it will be, too, with the assistance of Black Cat in the Rue Morgue.
Poe has been lacking sleep, and spends late nights mulling over plots and organizers, crafting a perfection without a flaw. He needs something foolproof to present to Ranpo in the future, so that there will be no plot holes to wriggle through. It has to be perfect. It must be perfect. It needs to be perfect.
This revenge consumes a great deal of Poe's time. He becomes reclusive (even more so than usual) and develops the tendency to deny the company of others. The few family members who have kept contact with him slowly drift away--but it's not like they mattered to him, anyways.
(He even catches word that his stepfather has been warning others to keep a distance from him, when he learns of Poe's latest obsessions. And that, Poe thinks in his bitter mind, is the most amusing thing he's ever heard, because that is completely typical of that wretched man. Really, his stepfather severing ties for him just spares Poe the time and grief of doing it himself. For once in his life, he makes a mental note to thank the man. But then he quickly discards it, because--hell--why bother with that demon of his past?)
Poe finds himself thinking about Ranpo quite a lot, for it is his languid smile and convoluted, fast-paced chatter that haunts him every waking hour. He can't quite decide if the flashbacks are a blessing or a curse. A blessing, because with memories comes spite, and--again--it's a wonderful motivator. A curse, because he does not want the image of those sharp, chartreuse eyes (cunning and calculative, like a cat's) distracting him from his work.
Though, occasionally, he does envision of how those eyes would look when defeated: wide with horrid shock and humiliation.
Poe ignores the subtle guilt that comes when he thinks this way--thinks of humiliating the man. He did, at a time, idolize the man, after all. He still does, really. He then slaps some sense into himself (both figuratively and literally), and focuses back onto his own redemption. That's right. He's here for self-preservation, nothing else. Nothing else.
He is not here to be considerate in his time of desperation. He is not here to be bothered by the unnecessary worry of other people. He doesn't understand the concern of his peers. This is nobody's problem except his, and it does not involve anyone besides himself and Ranpo. People can deem it as unhealthy as they want, but he will beg for the contrary: this is self-care. It's to gain worth and self-esteem, so how it that not healthy?
Even his at-the-time girlfriend--a meek woman by the name of Annie--begins to demand answers. Why he never goes outside anymore; why he speaks of nothing but revenge and Ranpo anymore; why he's so damn obsessed. She misses him, she says. He retorts he isn't obsessed, and if she didn't object to the extensive mind training before, why object now? Is it not essentially the same concept: proving himself?
She is adamant and does not listen. Nobody has been, lately--not friend nor family member nor lover, now, it seems. This is unhealthy, she says; this is killing him--and her, too. But Poe is also adamant, and insists this is his own decision he has made. Ranpo is the most worthy being on this planet, why wouldn't he be enticed by him?
Annie quiets at the last part. Poe doesn't understand what was said then that's so much worse than the rest of his rant. All is quiet besides her muffled sniffling over the phone. She mumbles something about how she understands what's happening now, and about needing space. He knows this is a breakup. He is accustomed to losing people at this point and is familiar to the process.
Losing her is more akin to losing a best friend than the heartbreak of losing a lover. He can't pinpoint why.
Perhaps it's because she had been the sole person to give him relentless support no matter what, and he even manages to push that off the edge. With his last support dwindling dead, well. That goes to prove something, doesn't it? His ungratefulness? His pitifulness?
(The lose does rattle him. He gives himself a full, workless week to contemplate his decisions. One side of his mind tells him to give up. He's lost everyone, now--isn't he satisfied yet? Or are there still stones left unturned--still reserves of hope to find and shatter? How far will he push himself before enough is enough?
The other side--the uglier side that drives his obsessions and self-loathing, and has led him to this point--tells him that with this last support severed, surely he has no reason to hesitate. He is free now. Free from fretting about disappointment, because surely there is no one left to disappoint.
Guess which half of his mind he sides with.)
And thus he commits to his novel tenfold. It is his top priority and his most time consuming effort. There's nothing else to be done in his life, and therefore nothing to distract him.
It takes roughly five years to complete his device of retaliation. Countless times did he revise and revise the drafts until perfected; there is an overabundance of paper drafts strewn about his home, nigh unreadable due to the excessive red editing ink, and thusly confusing the eye with the mishmash of ink and color. But those don't matter. Once he has the time, he'll rid himself of the imperfections by using them for fireplace kindling (not an entirely wise idea, because ink is never a good thing to toss into a fire, but oh well--perhaps he can send them through a shredder, but that's more tedious).
Then is the debate of how to get to Japan and challenge him personally. Tracking him may prove to be even more difficult, because Poe hasn't the slightest idea of what Ranpo's been up to these past few years.
However, a quick investigation concludes he works for some company called the Armed Detective Agency--and that's when a distant memory lights up, as he vaguely remembers the man uttering the company's name several years ago. Which only then leads to the question of how Poe could find the place, and somehow earn Ranpo's attention.
Poe doesn't precisely recall the scenario that ultimately led him to the Guild's front door. Perhaps he had learned of their existence on a bulletin somewhere, or perhaps he heard about them amongst the whispers on the street. The Guild is an establishment with a hazy set of beliefs, created by and for Ability users. They are multi-focused, and while pretending to know, he doesn't exactly understand the business they conduct. But one thing he knows for certain would be their involvement with the ADA, and that they plan to go to Japan to carry out their schemes.
An easy plane ticket, so to speak.
Poe cares naught for the petty war Mr. Fitzgerald plans to ignite. He can sympathize with his motives, sure--knowing the man acts only on behalf of mending something lost, which Poe can respect and relate to--but it, quite frankly, is none of his business. He's here for himself and himself alone. Not for his grieving boss, not for the people he's lost contact with, not even for his "friends" gained from the Guild (the strange, cryptid-like man known as Lovecraft, and the shy, overworked Louisa). Friendships always die, anyways.
And because the Guild and wherever he could've possibly stood in it is so disposable, he has no qualms with leaking their secrets for personal benefit.
Again: He can sympathize with Fitzgerald. There's nothing the man personally did to him that would prompt his disloyalty. But it's a dog-eat-dog world, and Poe would sell his soul to seize Ranpo's attention. (He thinks this as though he hasn't already.) He will not let his efforts go to waste yet again.
He sets the trap up perfectly, arranging it to the smallest detail. His redemption will be held in the exact room this entire fiasco began. This room of challenges is where he will build up from his downfall--his creation and conclusion.
He sits upon a chair behind the placed desk, waiting. At this point in time, Ranpo should have received his invitation to the match. A clock ticks on the wall. He does not particularly like the sound of it, for each tick only drives his anxiousness and resurfacing loathing (that should've been buried years ago) off an unforgiving cliff. In an opened notebook, he attempts to relieve his burning mind with poetry and incoherent mumbling. The words are not written as fancifully as he normally writes. He's trembling. Terribly. Not even the raccoon perched upon his shoulders can provide him comfort now.
The door creaks open. His vision, for the moment, blurs before he can recollect himself. There's a pounding within his ears, and he doesn't quite know if the source is within his head or chest.
In steps Ranpo and an unaccounted for woman. No matter. He won't let her become an issue. All that matters right now is himself and Ranpo--that's all that's ever mattered, right?
This is his last chance. His last chance to prove he has something to live for--that he himself can have worth on this miserable, miserable planet. He does not want his efforts to go to waste. They can't. They can't. He discards the thought of his years-long grievances being all for a fruitless endeavor. To think the sight of such a small, smiling detective can stir so much ancient fear and unnamed emotions within him. The same ungodly awe he harbored six years ago is something familiar to him as it drowns out everything.
He shuts the notebook: his last mechanism to cope with the oncoming storm in his chest.
He is only left with his pathetic hopes that he may emerge victor. This ensnarement of his own design is now his lifeblood, and it determines his fate. How crushing failure would be. Countless lost nights--countless lost pieces of his own damn mind--it'd be for nothing. He's thrown his own life away for this moment. He cannot fail. He cannot. He won't. He'll even beg to the god of whom he lost faith to, if that will grant him anything.
But the universe is just as cruel and unforgiving as he. Ranpo is inherently better, he knows, as this is the thought that's been hammered into his skull. Their differing placement in the world is what drove him this far.
He can only hope to dethrone him to appease the hole in his chest. It's growing, growing every single day--and tenfold, these past six years. It's threaded into every fiber of his being and yet--! And yet not a day has gone by where it no longer hurt; one would think by now the pain would become tolerable! But it hasn't. Damn it all, it hasn't. (Something inside him is whispering of how it's only worsened to hell because he let it. Because he forced it.)
He faces the fear head-on, despite the threat it poses to consume him. He can see it now: a shadow of a monster materializing behind the detective. Looming. Ready to snatch him up by its sharp claws. But he can't look at the demon now--his muse for vindictiveness is waiting.
Ranpo is smiling dazzlingly yet casually. It's unfair. It really fucking is. He's the world's greatest detective--can he not see Poe is dying just across the room? Why must he smile so joyously?
He wears the mask of a smile, for it's the least he can do to mirror the other and conjure false confidence. Ranpo chatters a sunny greeting that Poe doesn't entirely process, but can understand the gist of the eagerness. That makes two who are (oppositely natured) eager, then.
"Ah, Ranpo--" His voice is unrecognizable to himself with this casual façade. His head feels as though it's filled to the brim with pins and needles. He wants to throw up. "--it's been a long time."
Finally, with all of this swarming internalized agony, he can only choke down the truth: this was all his fault from the beginning. He brought this upon himself, hasn't he?
To think this nightmare happened simply because he was born bad.