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Bite. Kick. Shoot. Repeat. The pattern of meaningless cruelty and violence had been stamped into Osamu Dazai’s psyche with a strength almost identical to the strength he exerted each time he rammed his foot into the back of his next nameless victim’s skull. With each exhale a cloud of fog momentarily disrupted his vision, and he offhandedly tugged his coat tighter around his chest before resuming this business that had been classified as essential. A quiet ‘pop’ was the only sound that echoed within the large, reclusive walls of the warehouse he and his partner had been sent to, the sound that accompanied each and every life taking bullet he released. Then again, this perception of only one sound might not have been the entire truth. Perhaps Dazai was starting to lose the ability to differentiate between the real screams from his victims and the ghosts of their screams that lingered in his mind.
“Hey, got the next batch rallied up, Dazai,” his partner’s voice sliced through the jumbled mess humming loudly in his head. He double checked his work on the current body before glancing over his shoulder to see the redhead looking just about as enthralled towards the whole thing as he was. Dazai noticed the tiny drops of fresh blood dabbling the lower half of his pant legs. They would dry black, so it didn’t really matter, but he swiftly observed his own pants to ensure that he hadn’t been so sloppy.
“C’mon, what’re you waiting for? Don’t you wanna get this done so we can go get a drink or something? I’m sick of standing out here in the cold.”
“What, two jackets and a button up and you’re still not warm enough?” Dazai joked, but his voice came out dry. It was hard for him to form coherent sentences with all the thoughts fumbling about in his head. “Plus, you’re such a little guy, I don’t understand. Three layers should be plenty, and those are only the layers I know about.”
“You’re one to talk, bandage boy,” his partner snapped, dragging someone from the pile over to the elevated floor that Dazai was standing beside now. He performed the steps of the Mafia’s signature hit method with a flourish, although Dazai swore he could feel an added weight in the air surrounding his partner. It was an emotional weight, a conflicted weight. It was a weight that the two of them still hadn’t figured out how to shake completely, even after all the years they had spent immersed in this life.
Dazai reloaded his pistol and meandered over to the pile of petty criminals, street urchins, or just plain pitiful people who were going to find out just what the price was for knowing too much. Every month, depending on the frequency of incidents, Dazai and his established partner in crime, Chuya Nakahara, were tasked with rounding up those unfortunate enough to end up on the Port Mafia’s hit list. Recently, their job had become one that was required weekly.
The next victim, a stranger Dazai shouldn’t have felt any remorse for, struggled and whimpered as Dazai drug her to the so called chopping block indifferently by the bulk of her hair. As he wedged her mouth against the concrete, he briefly wondered what kind of life she might have lived before this moment. Was she a mother, a sister, no doubt a precious daughter? Did she have a husband or a wife, a family that loved her dearly, people that would no doubt miss her terribly? It wasn’t his place to know, just like it hadn’t been her place to find out whatever it was that had slated her for this fate. Pushing his irrelevant ponderings aside, Dazai struck his heel into the lower part of her cranium, listening for the infallible crunch indicative of a properly shattered jaw. Her screams of agony made it slightly harder for him to distinguish, but the way the remaining bones felt under his heel as he shifted it to ensure the job was done gave him the confirmation he needed.
He rolled her over with the foot he had just used to maim her, unsure what expression she saw as he gazed down and primed his gun for the final shots. He couldn’t feel anything, his eyes perceiving nothing but the hollow image of the victim he stared down. He didn’t feel any pity, or compassion, or regret…but he couldn’t identify deriving any sense of pride or satisfaction from these slaughters, either. Most of the time he didn’t understand what true purpose they served. He triggered the shots with a quick and measured twitch of his finger, hastily checking his pants again to ensure that the stance he was using was in fact the proper one to avoid the unsightly stains his partner wasn’t aware of. Of course, it wasn’t like blood stains really mattered much to them; not only were they invisible upon the backdrop of the clothes that he and Chuya wore for these jobs, but the Mafia could clean the cold, russet liquid out of just about anything.
“You sure are taking your time with the second batch,” Chuya remarked, standing by a pile of bodies that was already at least five people thicker. “What’s the matter, chill finally getting to you?”
“If the chill was finally bad enough to get to me, you’d be frozen solid, you know,” Dazai quipped, casting his partner a twinkling glance. “Don’t lecture me about how to do my job. I’ll do it my way; you do it yours. If you want to make things more interesting, we could always make a bet. First one to finish off their batch pays tonight’s tab.”
“The entire tab? Someone’s feeling especially generous tonight.”
A quiet laugh slipped from Dazai’s lips. He settled the back of his pistol against his shoulder as he strolled over to retrieve his next victim. “I’m not feeling any particular way. It’s just a simple question of who’s the more efficient killer. Are you feeling confident enough to bet on your own monstrous tab and then some?”
A frustrated growl scraped through Chuya’s clenched teeth as he spun around and began hauling over body after body. He barely left any time for his victim’s anguished screams to be heard, and in the back of his mind Dazai congratulated himself for thinking up such a simple yet brilliant plan. He got to work himself, falling into a rhythm where he could take out about three people almost simultaneously. In this phase of the job he wasn’t even aware of the atrocities he was committing towards these numerous, ill-fated victims anymore. He convinced himself to perceive them all as nothing more than lifelike dolls programmed to respond to him in a singularly horrified, incoherent way.
As he expected he would, Dazai processed his portion of the hoard with plenty of time to spare. He knew that Chuya would only be spurred on by the rage that swelled within him at the realization of his defeat. Dazai decided that he would wait outside for his partner to finish up, taking his leave as he stepped out into the frigid, shadowy night. He strode a few buildings down before picking a place to settle himself, intent to close his eyes, let the cold embrace him, and momentarily escape from the chaos of the horrid actions he had just committed, actions that were still occurring inside just a few meters away.
He rubbed his hands together before plunging them into his coat pockets, creating pictures out of the fog his breath produced. None of them were very concrete or coherent, but that was fine with him. He didn’t want to think about the number of souls that he had just damned, the density of the spirits that were now gathered in that room that seemed more to him like a grave. The dead were no doubt floundering together in a great confused, formless, viscous mass, trying to pull themselves together in the wake of the shock and pain they had just experienced. He knew that in no time any evidence of their existence would be extinguished, a majority of the bodies disposed of properly so as to never be discovered, while a few would remain and be displayed as an example.
He ground his forehead into his knees as he pulled them to his chest, trying to hang on to both his dwindling warmth and his sanity. This was a job that he had been doing for years, a job that was second nature to him, yet it still bothered him this much. The horrid nature of his actions shook him to his core, and he momentarily recalled the affective reaction that this line of work used to have on him. He would shake, he would vomit, he would sob…there was nothing in this world that could pull him out of the abyss of negativity that used to drown him in an endless sea of self-loathing. Even now, Dazai wasn’t sure what he observed when he looked in the mirror. His hands began to tremble, and he shoved his self-berating introspection to the side, knowing that he could always blame the weather for his uncontrollable shaking.
“Okay, how about a new wager; last one to the bar is the one who picks up the tab!” Chuya called, and Dazai raised his head just in time to see his partner sprinting towards the main road. “May the best executive win!”
Dazai’s painfully self-reflective thoughts dissipated as he rose to his feet, his focus shifting onto this new challenge presented by his partner. The insufferable man was lithe, nimble, and truthfully faster than him, but Dazai also knew that it probably had something to do with his partner’s ability to manipulate his own weight and the weight of things around him at will. Of course, despite the fact that Chuya figured he had the upper hand due to both his ability and his head start, Dazai knew he would still be able to best him. Slipping through the shadows and cutting across the rooftops and narrow passages that comprised the port city of Yokohama, Dazai waltzed into the bar and over to he and Chuya’s regular seats; they were practically reserved for them at this point.
Their regular drinks had already been ordered and delivered to the table by the time Chuya arrived. Dazai greeted him with a whimsical wave, snickering to himself as Chuya stormed over, his entire form quivering as he attempted to avoid damaging anything in the wake of his rage at being shown up once again starting to boil over. He sat down with enough force to cause the end of the seat to come up; Dazai knew that he was letting his emotions, and therefore his powers, get the best of him. He pushed his friend’s drink towards him, taking a sip of his own and watching silently as Chuya clasped the glass in his hand and downed the drink in just a few gulps. Of course, Dazai already knew that it was going to take much more than that to properly sate him.
Minutes passed and slowly blended into hours as the two young men lounged in their usual booth, bickering and berating each other between swapping stories of missions and encounters they hadn’t had the opportunity to experience together. By the time Chuya was swaying in his seat, barely able to keep his hand on the glass resting in his fingers without spilling any of its contents, Dazai was really just playing along, drinking just enough to take the edge off of his burning mind. He rested his head on the back of the booth, rubbing the back of his neck and listening to the noises in the bar to distract him from the thoughts that relentlessly attempted to creep back into the conscious stream of his mind.
“So, were you out there crying again or something?” Chuya questioned directly, downing the dregs of his most recent glass. “Saw you just sitting there with your head in your knees. You looked like some depressed kid that got left out in the cold, but you aren’t like that anymore. Neither of us are. So what’s your deal?”
Dazai laughed lightly, although its sound was cold and empty. “Nothing’s my deal, it’s nothing you need to concern yourself with. Maybe I was just cold and trying to keep warm, why do you always lean towards such grandiose suspicions—”
“You know damn well why,” Chuya retorted before grabbing the attention of a passing waiter to order another beverage. “Don’t start trying to feed me any of your self-righteous bullshit, or convince me that everything’s really okay. Because I know when things aren’t okay with you. I’ve been your partner and done this kind of work with you long enough to know. I can tell when things are out of whack with you, there’s no point trying to pretend like you can conceal it. Of course, the person you’re worst at hiding that kind of shit from is yourself. So, since you aren’t really equipped to deal with it yourself, why don’t you try talking to me about it. At least you know I’m a safe receptacle for this kind of stuff. I won’t run back to HQ to tattle on you.”
Dazai sighed with a smile, pushing his bangs up as he ran his hand through his hair before leaning forward to rest his chin on his hands. He met Chuya’s shaky gaze, knowing that at his point his friend was far enough gone he probably wouldn’t even remember a majority of this conversation tomorrow morning. “You want to know what’s going on with me, what my problem is? Honestly, I’m just growing more unsure every day if this kind of work is really the kind of work I was meant to do. Which is a selfish thought, considering all the people that have sacrificed things to help me get where I am today. But the truth is, I’m just a leaf blown about in the breeze. I don’t see any purpose in this life for myself. More and more I find myself asking why I even bother to wake up every morning if all that’s going to greet me is…this.”
Dazai rested his hands palm up on the table, running his eyes along the pale skin laid over the darker veins that ran up under the bandages that he never removed in view of others. Although his heart continued to beat, Dazai could tell that his soul was stagnating, if it wasn’t already completely barren and empty. He detested the life that he lived, questioned every action he committed, and even pondered the possibility that this world might be an infinitely better, safer, happier place without him. He clenched his fingers into fists, taking a deep breath and sucking in the sadness that threatened to spill forth with it. He stiffened as Chuya suddenly rested his hands atop his fists, his eyes far from sober but his affectionate expression still sincere.
“It’s a tough job, a tiresome job, but we’re protecting people, Dazai. We’re protecting our own, we’re preserving portions of this city that wouldn’t stand a chance without people like us. Sure, a lot of our jobs are dirty and discrete and dubious, but that doesn’t mean they’re any less necessary in the grand scheme of things. You and I have practically been around since the Port Mafia’s turning point, it’s most recent reformation at the Boss’s hands. This organization has really turned around because of him, because of us! We’ve preserved the peace and made a lot of dealings and alliances successful that wouldn’t have been possibilities before we showed up! Even Kouyou-nee said that we’re an indispensable team, that the Mafia wouldn’t have been able to remain or even progress to this point without us.”
“But what is the state of the Mafia now? Are you really proud of every single task we’re given? Does it make you feel proud to know that alongside all the people who have fallen under the fate of righteous justice, there’s just as many if not more unfortunate souls that get swept under the rug? We dispose of so many bodies, take away so many lives in the name of an organization that we’re supposed to just blindly follow and give our lives to. But I’m beginning to think that someday, at least someday soon for me, I won’t be able to excuse my actions to myself anymore. I won’t be able to bear the weight of the sins that I’ve committed, of the massacres that I continue to commit every day because it’s what’s expected of me. I don’t know if I really know what it feels like to be me. I only know how to be what the Boss wants me to be.”
Chuya gulped down the next drink the waiter brought him with impressive speed, his head slumping against the table as this most recent glass did him in for the evening. The table before him littered with empty, moist glasses, Dazai placed payment on the table and lugged his partner onto his back. He carried the scent of the bar on him, every seam of his clothing stitched with the pungent scent of alcohol. The smell was familiar to Dazai, something that he considered as permanent a part of his life as the dirty jobs he was resigned to complete. As he made his way back to the dwelling he and Chuya called home, a set of apartments set aside for all those registered as executives of the Port Mafia, his thoughts continued to knock around in his head like marbles.
He still wasn’t sure what he was going to do with his life, if his conviction was true, and the path he was on wasn’t the one he was meant to follow. He could feel fear and apprehension churning the alcohol in his stomach, reminding him that this was the only life he had ever known, a life in which he was revered and praised and appreciated. He could always rely on Chuya as a friend, a partner, a confidant, anything that he needed. He looked up to Kouyou and respected her abilities, charisma, and advice…and although a seed of doubt had always clouded his mind in regards to his boss, he couldn’t help but carry a measure of respect towards him as well.
Even if this life eventually transformed into nothing but disgust in himself and regret, was he truly prepared to face the empty void that faced him on the other side? If he chose such a path, he would have to rediscover himself, forge a place and a purpose for himself out of the dark nothingness that stretched before him. So engulfed was he by such darkness in his soul, Dazai figured that it would be better to wait for some form of light to pierce him from the void before he deviated from this life. If something compelling could reveal itself, could direct him or snag him and yank him towards the place where he was to find true peace and meaning for himself, then perhaps that would be convincing enough for him. But considering his current state of instability, he couldn’t afford to deviate from this life. If he did, he was sure to crumble to dust and be swept away by the breeze of the unknown.