Chapter Text
Saturday morning finds Serizawa waiting at the Sansho Station, closest to his home. Unlike most Saturdays, however, this time he’s riding in the opposite direction.
He almost didn’t come. Again. But then Reigen texted about an impromptu job outside the city, and, well. Serizawa certainly doesn’t want his powerless, accident-prone boss to be ambushed by a malevolent deity in the middle of a field. If the case turned disastrous during Serizawa’s cancelled shift, he’d have to instantly forgive Reigen for everything.
At 10:10, the self-proclaimed Greatest Psychic of the 21st Century waves at Serizawa from across the platform, both of them in their full work attire despite the borderline uncomfortable heat.
“Serizawa! Glad you’ve made it. How’s homework?”
For a moment, Serizawa panics. Will Reigen call him out on this flimsy excuse?
“U-uh, it’s okay,” he stutters. “I’m mostly done with the essays.”
“Good, good.” Reigen nods, not paying attention — or, at least, pretending not to. His thumb points at the train leisurely pulling up to the station. “Shall we?”
They shall.
Serizawa waits as they board and find their way through a sweaty corridor of people to a couple of unoccupied seats. He waits as the wagon slides hesitantly forward, stops, then begins moving in earnest. He waits, watching Reigen throw one leg over another and flip his phone open, deft fingers flying over the keys too small for Serizawa’s huge paws. It’s evident to anyone who knows him that: a) Reigen’s still nervous around trains after experiencing the Infinite Railroad of Doom; b) he will evade such implications with the agility of a world-class dodgeball player.
So Serizawa waits, counting stern-faced men in grey and blue suits, animatedly talking teenagers, passengers with dogs, and tired mothers saddled with hyperactive toddlers. Then he waits some more.
At last, Reigen says, almost as an afterthought, “We’re visiting Kamei-san. Should be nothing serious, but better keep an eye out.”
Serizawa hums. Kamei-san is an older woman who lives in the tiny Myoga Village, which consists primarily of five houses and one dilapidated shrine, and who claims to be haunted by minor spirits once or twice a month. She never is, and Spirits & Such collectively agrees that she’s probably just looking for some company now that her children have moved out. It’s not that Serizawa wouldn’t want to see her, quite the opposite — she’s sweet, even if she tries to overfeed him and Reigen every chance she gets and a single lapse in awareness means being loaded with enough food for a whole psychic battalion.
The thing is, Serizawa doubts his expertise is necessary at all in this particular instance. He says nothing about it. He also doesn’t mention Kamei-san’s suspiciously convenient timing.
“If she’s making warabimochi again, I may not be able to resist.”
Reigen groans. “She has to run out of Tupperware eventually, right? I constantly forget to return it, but she keeps pulling out more.” He suddenly turns to his colleague, completely serious. “Serizawa. In your professional opinion, is an infinite Tupperware dimension physically possible? A Tupperware wormhole, if you will.”
Serizawa squares his shoulders, equally serious. “I mean, alternative dimensions are absolutely possible, though they are usually shaped by… Well, by supernatural energy. I’ve never heard of Tupperware being lethal, but… I guess, statistically speaking, someone might have drowned?.. In a plastic bowl?..”
“And created a vengeance-fueled plane of translucent lunchboxes and close-fitting lids.” Reigen nods sagely. “We should definitely investigate.”
“Of course. Kamei-san is lucky to have us.”
As they break free of the cityscape, sunlight spills over the trees and pastures, climbing inside the wagon and painting it a joyful yellow. Serizawa blinks at it and smiles. I’m lucky to have us.
“She is, Serizawa.” Reigen jostles him gently with an elbow. “We’re the best in business, aren’t we?”
Kamei-san, predictably, doesn’t have any abnormal spiritual presences hanging around. What she does have is a creaky door hinge (which Reigen fixes), a leaky tap (which Reigen tightens), and what appears to be a whole fridge of okonomiyaki.
“No Tupperware wormhole,” Reigen sighs, assessing two bags of packed dinners he and Serizawa were too polite to fight off. In hindsight, telling Kamei-san they have several child apprentices was a big tactical miscalculation.
“No Tupperware wormhole,” agrees Serizawa. Surrounded by an air of defeat, the pair steps into the city-bound train.
“One of life’s eternally unsolved mysteries,” Reigen laments. “Why do we exist? What comes after death? Which god provides old ladies with unlimited food containers?”
Serizawa peeks at the neatly stacked boxes and exhales. “I hope Tome-chan likes pork.”
“She better. Because it’s the only thing she’ll be seeing for a week.”
They pass several stations in silence. Reigen keeps tapping his foot, a complicated expression on his face. Serizawa’s learned not to push, lest he get burned. Ten minutes later, his patience pays off.
“So, uh.” Reigen coughs, tugging at his shirt collar. “What I wanted to say is, I’m sorry. For Thursday, and for the whole week, honestly.” He cringes and scratches at his nosebridge — a small thing he does when embarrassed. “I didn’t mean for my words to come out that way. You said you didn’t need space before, but if that changed… Well. I wouldn’t blame you for taking some time off. From work, that is, or… from our relationship.”
Serizawa doesn’t have a chance to process this statement before being slapped with another.
“But also!” Reigen’s gaze lands on Serizawa’s face for a brief moment, then bounces off like a tennis ball. His speech gains both in speed and intensity. “If you plan on quitting, please give me a couple weeks to find a replacement. I promise I won’t bother you after that. I’ll even write you a recommendation, for whatever it’s worth…”
“Reco..?” Serizawa massages his forehead. “Okay, pause. Just… Just give me a second.”
Reigen’s mouth, miraculously, snaps shut. Serizawa closes his eyes, breathes out, and tries to separate his thoughts into distinct logical threads. Some of the pieces don’t quite align, as if pulled from different knitting kits. He decides to leave them for later and tackle the most glaring issue first.
“Okay.” He looks down at the tips of his shoes, dusty after walking through the rural neighbourhoods. “Okay. I don’t know where this impression is coming from, but I’m not going to quit. Definitely not in the near future. I mean, I’m not happy about Thursday, but I’ve had time to think it over. I reckon we both said stuff we probably normally wouldn’t. So I’d like to apologise as well.”
“That’s different.” Reigen sniffs, shifting in his seat. “You called me a cheater. I basically called you a loser.”
Serizawa shrugs, twiddling his thumbs. “I knew you didn’t mean it. It wasn’t pleasant, and I’m grateful for the apology, but…”
“…but it wasn’t the thing that bothered you in the first place,” Reigen deduces. Serizawa inclines his head. “Alright. I see. In that case, I think a different kind of apology is in order.”
“For what?” Serizawa looks up at his boss, who smirks in that specific, self-satisfied way of someone who has finally figured out a difficult puzzle.
“For making assumptions.” Reigen leans back, a heavy breath exploding out of him. “I’m very good at it, you know. It’s part of the business model: anticipating what the client needs before they dare ask for it.” He chuckles, bashful. “Sometimes, I don’t remember to turn it off.”
Reigen’s fidgety hands wander into the trouser pockets. He turns to Serizawa, frighteningly sincere, sun hitting his face at just the right angle to make even a completely aura-lacking man seem a bit ethereal.
“I’ll listen now. Tell me, why is it so important if I played the game fairly?”
So Serizawa does.
Once, when Serizawa Katsuya is twenty-seven and has tentatively established himself as a member of Claw’s elite, a tiny firecracker of a kid with big blue eyes accosts him in the hallway.
“Do you have games on your phone?” No greeting, no hesitation, straight to the point.
“Ah…” Serizawa flinches, gripping the handle of his umbrella with both hands. “Shou-kun. D-does your father know y-you’re here?”
Shou scrunches his freckled nose. “Yeeeah…”
“Mm-hm.” Serizawa may be socially stunted, but even he isn’t buying it. How old is the boy again? Ten? Should he be walking around the building unsupervised?
“So?” Shou sways impatiently in place, tugging at his green T-shirt. “Do you have games?”
“N-not… really,” Serizawa mutters. His phone is new, given to him on the premise that it would be used strictly for “work-related purposes”. He’s not certain if installing Snake on it counts as a policy violation, but he’s not risking it. “Let’s… Let’s get you back to your father’s office…”
“I don’t wanna,” Shou whines, arms flapping around. “Also, he’s, like, super busy. An’ he doesn’t like to be bothered when he’s busy.” He kicks at the ground with his white scuffed sneaker.
Serizawa tries to think of something to do. He peers down the hallway, hoping an actual adult might materialise and cart the kid off. No such luck. Actual adults, it seems, are busy with actual adult tasks.
Okay. Okay, maybe he could entertain the boy until dinner, then hand him over to a more capable individual? That sounds like a responsible course of action. They could play games. Shou likes games, Serizawa likes games; it’s a perfect, age-appropriate pastime.
“Uhh… Well, i-if you want to… I have games in my room?..” Oh no. It sounds awful, coming from a man thrice Shou’s age. Serizawa immediately wishes he could catch the sentence and stuff it back into his mouth. It’s a small miracle the kid only pays attention to the single most important part.
“Which games?”
“Oh, well…” Serizawa mulls the question over, sifting out the oldest and the goriest RPGs in his collection. “Let me see… Blood Dragon’s Oath… Spiralling Knights… Face of Mobkind…” As he’s listing the titles to the eagerly nodding Shou, it dawns on him that what he truly, selfishly wants to do is share his love and passion for one very specific piece of media he’s been involved with on and off for more than two years. There’s no getting around it; the idea has blossomed and taken root inside his brain.
“Actually…” Serizawa’s heartbeat spikes, sweat gathering on his skin. Alarm, excitement, and inexplicable terror tie his stomach in knots. “There’s something cool I could show you…”
Shou is a fast, if impatient, learner. He enjoys adventures and dungeon quests, but constrained, incremental progression clearly bores him. So Serizawa lends him his own overpowered character and watches the boy hunt far more experienced warriors for sport with almost sadistic precision. To Shou, they are nothing more than loot boxes on legs, clad in funny-looking gear. For a price of five hundred diamonds, Serizawa cheekily renames the character to Player Killer.
When Serizawa Katsuya is twenty-eight, Shou returns from a solo mission with a new, invisible weight on his shoulders. He’s still loud and energetic, but his aura is denser, shimmering like an oil stain and colouring his every word.
It’s fine, he shrugs. Dad’s just being stupid. No complaints, no tantrums; all in all, a surprisingly mature kid. Serizawa’s not so sure it’s a good thing.
He listens as Shou reports the status of the Fourth Division to the conference room, his relaxed pose at odds with the sharp, calculating gaze. It’s not Serizawa’s place to say anything; not his place to worry for the kid’s safety on remote, unaccompanied trips. Shou is small and young, but he can defend himself. His father is the leader of Claw.
Once Shou’s presentation wraps up, President Suzuki awards him with a slight incline of his head and a tepid “Good”. They move on. If, for a moment, the boy falters by the projector screen; if he seems uncertain, as though suddenly remembering he’s eleven, surrounded by grown-ups whose approval he strives for, then Serizawa forces himself not to notice it. Because Shou’s father is the leader of Claw, and Serizawa is both a coward and the last person on Earth who should weigh in on such matters.
He cannot help anyone. He can barely help himself. So he shamefully invites Shou for an evening of games and leftover pizza and pretends it’s making a difference.
When Serizawa Katsuya is twenty-nine, things begin to spiral out of control. First, Claw’s Seventh Division stationed near the Seasoning City, Japan, suffers a total and absolute defeat. Tensions at the H.Q. run high, leading to multiple telekinetically charged accidents. President Suzuki confidently strategises around the breach in their forces and unveils the Final Plan.
Then, a few weeks later, Shou falls off the radar.
They don’t talk about it. They don’t send out search parties. The President is convinced it’s Shou’s version of a teenage rebellion, which will end in time for the whole Suzuki family to bond over the subjugation of Japan. In any case, none of it is Serizawa’s fault. Even if it feels like it.
The psychic pours all of his stress into smashing controller buttons, pummelling countless enemies into the floor. Orbs of XP, enchanted armour that would cost something ridiculous on Mobbay, enough summoning scrolls to fill a library — Serizawa’s inventory is overflowing with riches to the point of extravagance. His eyes are drier than desert, he doesn’t sleep. He is wired, and restless, and so, so anxious that the only way his room doesn’t turn into some sort of ground zero is if he continuously engages in risky, attention-demanding fights — without reservation and to his own detriment.
Once he’s got rid of any decent competition, he stoops lower and begins preying on the weak and poorly equipped, ensuring that, no matter how bad his day is going, everyone on the server is about to have it worse.
It’s a dangerous gamble with a very predictable outcome.
One miserable October day, Serizawa sees some newbie mucking about the spawn. As he prepares to strike, eleven other players spring up on him, closing the trap. Resistance is futile. He barely has a minute to sprint through all five stages of grief: How is this possible?! It’s not fair, damn it! Think, stop and think, there must be something to do! Oh gods, they’re killing me... They’re actually killing me.
And just like that, it’s done.
His hands shake in the aftermath, mind blank. Not a single yen spent on the game, and yet Serizawa’s whole fortune is burning. No cheat codes, no replays. This is it. This is really it.
GAME OVER
> Create New Character <
Quit
Angry letters blink at him from the screen, accompanied by a stray, asinine thought: Shou will never play with me again.
The boy doesn’t like gradual character progression; he likes swinging a big glowing sword and hurling magic bolts at the Lich King, Ruler of the Cursed Marshes. And it’s fine. Shou is twelve; he’s entitled to his own opinions.
Even if he chooses to leave Claw, and everyone in it, behind.
It’s not Serizawa’s fault. Days pass, and the bitterness of his moronic, ridiculous death fades into the background, overshadowed by guilt. It’s not his fault, he thinks. Except it kind of, probably, most definitely is.
He doesn’t touch Echoes of Shadowfire again.
Reigen’s knee keeps bouncing throughout Serizawa’s stilted monologue, but he doesn’t interrupt. Neither does he comment once his employee finishes talking.
Maybe he’s deciding how to politely let Serizawa know that his services are no longer required, that Reigen’s actually contacted none other than Shimazaki Ryu, former terrorist and currently an independent contractor, and convinced him to join, so Serizawa, who was a backup plan anyway, can bugger off to go work as a clothes hanger or a speed bump — all exciting opportunities for folks without general education, training, or social skills.
Okay. That’s not helpful. Better think of something else.
Serizawa swallows and turns to the window. The scenery outside is peaceful and bright, power lines stretching and coiling around transmission towers like sun-weathered snakes. Open fields, peppered here and there with tiny buildings, slowly transform into paved residential areas.
Minutes later, they pull up to the station and stand up in tandem, burdened with a week’s worth of homemade meals. Serizawa mentally fortifies himself, lifts his bag, and asks, “To the office?”
Reigen shakes his head, distracted. “We’re closed for today, and I told Tome not to come. Just in case, you know.” In case Spirits & Such lost its resident esper, Serizawa translates.
“Oh. Then, erm, see you tomorrow?”
He’s not going to demand Reigen explain himself in return. It’s not a trade deal. They both apologised, and Serizawa got to say his piece, which may not be the resolution he hoped for, but what can you do. He’s tired of sulking, he's tired of emotional turmoil, and he's done navigating a fight that isn’t a fight.
The doors slide open, and Serizawa walks out, ready to head home.
“I, uh, didn’t cheat.”
Serizawa stops, looks over his shoulder at Reigen, shifting dejectedly from foot to foot a few metres behind. Reigen’s hand clutches at the food bag as though it’s the one thing tethering him to reality.
“I didn’t cheat.” The truth seems to be coming out with great difficulty, digging into Reigen’s spasming throat like a thorny vine. “I played as twelve people, manually. Custom builds and everything. It wasn’t in good faith, and I spent a lot of money, but I didn’t cheat.”
He grins and puffs his chest, but he doesn’t sound boastful. He sounds… Well, Serizawa is mildly surprised to notice that the other man sounds miserable.
“I put my bank account into the red, can you imagine?” Reigen laughs, bitter and self-deprecating, sweat glistening on his face and neck. “I mean, wow. My sleep schedule went completely out the window.”
Serizawa doesn’t reply. What could he say? The long-awaited explanation brings him neither joy nor satisfaction. He feels stunned, as if watching a car pile-up combust from afar. Morbidly fascinated. Unable to help.
“I think I started hallucinating at some point.” Reigen’s gaze darts around, not landing on anything. He shakes his index finger. “And, ha, here’s the kicker! You may wonder: how could I let it happen? Shouldn’t I try to be a good role model for Mob? And you know what, you’d be a hundred percent correct!”
Reigen frantically waves his free hand as if to disperse all the negative energy, almost slapping an innocent bystander. Streams of irritated passengers continue to split and wrap around them like clouds wrapping around mountain peaks. Though Reigen isn’t, perhaps, a mountain peak so much as an actively spouting volcano.
“The thing is, Mob wasn’t there. I don’t know if you know. We had a — well, it doesn’t really matter, what matters is he took a break from work to focus on friendships and clubs or whatever. Typical middle-schooler stuff. And I was free to act as stupid as I wanted to.”
Ah. Serizawa is starting to see where this is going, and the sinister, familiar shapes on the horizon fill him with apprehension.
“So that’s what I did. A shitty decision, but you know what they say about hindsight.” Reigen shrugs. “It almost killed the business.”
It almost killed the business. Something else, something loaded and painful is hiding beneath these words. Something Serizawa doesn’t have the clues to decipher. Reigen’s initial dismissal makes a lot of sense now: it was his strange, convoluted version of being honest. Of trying to signal, however clumsily, that while he didn’t want to lie, he couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth, either.
For once, it’s not cowardice that stops Serizawa from prying; it’s a sense of deep, regretful kinship.
“Reigen…” No, too formal. He nervously licks his lips, then tries again. “A-arataka. Uhm. T-thank you for telling me.” It seems we’ve both had a rotten time.
In the corner of his vision, he spots a woman staring right at them. And here I thought it couldn’t get more awkward. Serizawa focuses his attention on Reigen’s tie and tries to suppress any images of ladies getting a front-row seat to an exclusive Spirits & Such Melodrama episode.
He doesn’t say “I understand” or “I’m sorry you had to go through that”. If he acknowledges the Bad Stuff, if he makes Reigen’s confession into a big deal, the latter will bristle and throw up his defences. Serizawa takes a moment to think.
“I’m not angry about losing,” he says slowly, carefully. “It’s true. I was upset when it happened, yes… But that was months ago, you know? And I’m… I’m choosing not to cling onto the past.”
“Probably a good idea,” Reigen muses.
“Yes, well. I think…” Serizawa looks out to where a train is rushing past, smooth and glaring in the sun like a red apple. “I think I needed… I’m not sure. Closure, maybe. Or to know that I’ve justifiably lost to someone better. That’s all.”
“No shame in losing to the Greatest Psychic of the 21st Century,” comes a wise response.
Serizawa smiles. “Of course. No man is a match for… What was it? Level 131 of spiritual power?”
“Exactly.” Reigen rolls his feet heel to toe, having apparently exhausted the “staying in one place” limit. “Though you weren’t too shabby yourself.”
“With such high praise, I might just be able to cope.”
“Now, don’t get snarky with me.” Reigen transfers his bag into the other hand. Serizawa’s fingers have also started to ache.
“One, uh, last thing…” the psychic says. “In the future, if you don’t want to share something… You can say so. Explicitly. I’ll, uh, try not to… get into my head about it too much.”
Reigen stills for a second, as if stuck between several fright responses, then exhales. His smile turns less strained, almost shy.
“Pinky promise?” He cocks one devilishly handsome eyebrow.
Serizawa snorts. They sure do pick up the best from the kids. “Yeah. Pinky promise.”
They drift gently towards the exit, bags crinkling, Serizawa matching Reigen’s lazy stride. The station clock above reads 12:37.
“Huh,” the psychic says. “F-feels kind of weird to end the day before lunch.”
Reigen hums, noncommittal. “I suppose. You have something in mind?”
“Not really. But,” Serizawa pauses, mulls it over. “We could… Uh, come to mine? To watch something?”
Reigen turns to him, blinking, then breaks into a delighted grin. “I bet you just want to show off your nerdy collection.” He pats Serizawa’s shoulder good-naturedly. “It’s fine, big guy. Whatever makes you happy.”
Serizawa feels the tips of his ears burning. Divert, quickly. “D-did you solve the Mobcraft case, by the way?”
“I did.” Reigen smirks. There’s a noticeable lightness to him; a halo of relaxed contentment. “Easy. Some friend of the clients added a scary mod without telling them. Which is completely unnecessary, in my opinion. The game is pretty creepy as is.”
“You didn’t like it?”
Reigen makes a sort of eh sound. “No, it was alright. I’m just not sure what there is to do besides hunting, walking, mining, and more walking.”
Well. If Serizawa were to pitch it to someone like himself, he’d probably say that Mobcraft, and sandbox games in general, promote creativity. There’s no set direction, meaning anyone can explore digital worlds at their own pace, using whatever tools they’re comfortable with.
But Reigen isn’t like Serizawa.
To Reigen, the concepts of “slowing down” or “taking his time to appreciate the immersive graphics” are riddles written in an ancient tongue. In the absence of a concrete goal, he struggles to pick a lane, ends up doing a bit of everything, and shortly burns out. That’s why he mostly defaults to no-brainers like Tetris.
He reminds Serizawa a bit of Shou, actually. Shou, who couldn’t be bothered with the thought-provoking side-quests in the Hanging Temple, but would cackle like mad when bonking other players with a wooden chair. So maybe Reigen isn’t necessarily not a gamer; maybe he, like Shou, simply needs someone to accommodate his chaotic style.
Serizawa assesses this revelation from several angles and concludes it could benefit from further empirical evidence. He’s not studying the principles of science for nothing, after all.
“Oh, also,” Reigen adds after a period of quiet deliberation, face slightly red, “I don’t believe we ever discussed it, but. You can call me Arataka. If you want.”
“Oh!” Serizawa flushes. “Right! Y-you can call me K-katsuya, then!”
At this, he eagerly turns around, misjudges the distance, and catapults a bag of food into Reigen with the force of a guided missile, knocking his boss backwards like a bowling pin. This is one of Serizawa’s special moves, where he ruins the moment by dealing a sudden, devastating blow to the object of his affection.
Next Monday, Reigen is high-strung and slightly manic about the eyes, and Serizawa is sluggish, barely clinging to consciousness and looking deader than the spirits they exorcise on the regular. All because Serizawa made a grave mistake introducing Reigen to a building simulator, and the pair spent the night in progressively more stupid and exasperated debates over the couch cushions and the exact size and positioning of a potted ficus plant.