Chapter Text
Your Boss is a punctual and pragmatic person, naturally. She's aware that your gang is nothing special in terms of capability―not many big fish to speak of―and tries to stay out of the Port Mafia's business as she is aware that nothing good would come of it. Not many of her goons are gifted with an ability, and you're one of the few exceptions to this rule. Blessed with power and a desire to rise your body count (maybe both in the perverted and murderous way), you've climbed up the ranks to be considered one of her right-hand henchmen.
However, she soon realizes that your effectiveness is more trouble than its worth. Her list of your weaknesses grows with each passing day of making your acquaintance. Mentioning a number would prove irrelevant, as she knows that it'll just keep increasing for as long as the two of you are aware of each other.
Fatal Weakness #1: Your personality, in general. It's not a particularly pleasant one, or at least one many people tolerate, but you seem to not care.
You give the unknown woman in front of you a sleazy grin, one that you're notorious for. She coos you over, the two of you exchange a not-so-brief kiss, hands wandering around. When she leaves you be after throwing one last flirtatious glance your way and then disappears into the crowd, you touch your pocket only to realize that something is missing.
"I got robbed again," you dully note to yourself.
With concerning nonchalance, you fling yourself over one of the beanbags littered across the club and let out a sigh as you put your leg on top of one of the tables. The lights are dimmed and you take your time observing the people around you, dancing, having fun. This life is what you're all about and you're not too afraid of losing a little bit of money or attention. Some kind of company, preferably attractive, will always find you.
One of your favorite waitresses approaches you with an easy-going smile. Or maybe it's a hint of sadism you see in her expression, you're too far gone to judge adequately. "Heya, if this isn't my favorite womanizer. Did you get scammed again?"
"Yeah." You groan, your body sinking further into the cushion as you shake your head dramatically. "I haven't even puked yet."
"Don't worry, I got you. This is for yesterday," she says vaguely with a wink and then wanders off, presumably to get you some of your favorite drinks. You don't remember doing anything notable yesterday and this lapse in memory causes you to frown, however, you don't say anything out loud as to not ruin this opportunity for free drinks.
A constipated looking boy takes a seat next to you shortly after, slightly shaking as if terrified. Wait, are you tripping or is his hair all asymmetrical? No, it's too early for you to be tripping.
"If you're here to rob me for money for a haircut, I'll just let you know that someone beat you to it," you say, informatively. Then, you make a vague motion towards the woman you briefly remember making out with a few minutes ago.
"What? No, I―"
"I'm not mad." There's a slight pause and he stares at you, however, his obvious disturbance seems more like concern for your mental health rather than some kind of social anxiety this time. Feeling chatty, to ease the tension, you add to your speech. "Nor disappointed."
"Erm, have you seen―"
As he begins to speak, the waitress comes into view once more, this time holding a generous amount of drinks with great variety. Cheers to you, you're about to turn into Blackout [Y/n] real soon. Though this guy seems to be trying to communicate with you, you once more blatantly ignore him in favor of something more interesting.
When the waitress sets down your drinks, you decide to express your gratitude. "Danke," you slur bilingually.
She stifles a laugh. You can't tell if she's making fun of you or if she's simply amazed by your linguistic skills, but you'd like to think that it's the latter. In response, you offer no more than a suggestive expression that you believe is very sexy, but in reality, it makes you look like there's a fly in your eye.
"So―"
Just as he opens his mouth again, your phone rings. You shush him with your index finger pressed against your lips before taking the call in an all-too suave manner. He looks at you with irritation written over his face, however, a call from your Boss is more important than his babbling. If you disregard the reason for his unfinished sentences, which would be you, that is.
Fatal Weakness #2: You lose sight of your objective easily. Granted, you're also not smart, since any person with some sort of detected brain activity wouldn't take a phone call from their Boss in front of a bystander.
Regardless, you seem to be lacking in both the aforementioned area (of brain activity, that is) and also any sense of self-awareness, self-preservation, and whatever other self-isms except maybe self-confidence. Because everyone can smell the narc on you like bad cologne.
"Hi," you say casually.
"Did you take care of the target?" she hisses in your ear and you can't help wincing. Even with the loud music resounding through the club, it seems that she's intent on giving you a migraine. On second thought, your migraine might just be caused by the loud music itself, so this thesis has been officially canceled.
At the sound of that, the boy seems to give up on whatever it was he tried to ask you and scoots away. He merges with the crowd, though you don't follow his movements with your eyes, and disappears somewhere.
"Chill," you say while taking a sip from one of your free drinks. Then, you go on to add irrelevantly, "I'm partying right now, so." You're, in fact, not partying.
Now that you think about it, you don't remember who the target is. She's yelling something at you, though you don't listen and instead decide that interrupting her mid-tangent is a good idea. She wonders, sometimes, how people take you seriously enough to put a bounty over your head―but the reason why you're wanted dead is clear to her.
"Hey, who's the target, anyway?"
"Fujieda Shizuo. Brown hair and eyes. He should be on the second floor, the VIP section. Hurry." You hear a click, and that's the end of the call. Well, whatever, you'll deal with this after you finish your drinks.
Fatal Weakness #3: Women. You don't have any particular preference for gender when it comes to your many partners since you are all but a not-so-humble easy person, but there's something about women that doesn't make you want to cuss them out or whatever else. Girl power, as they say.
It's in the middle of an intoxicated make-out session―with some pretty lady who decided to take advantage of your stash of drinks―that you get another phone call. You pointedly ignore it, as you're preoccupied, however she separates from you. "Don't you need to answer that?"
You frown but your high spirits quickly return when you remember that you've now got an excuse for violence. To make your sudden departure less suspicious or otherwise unsatisfying, you offer her one last grimace― er, grin, before proclaiming that she can have the rest of the drinks to herself, being your ever-so-benevolent self.
She seems satisfied with that. However, when she looks down at the tray, her happiness quickly goes sour. "Hey, there's nothing left..." But you're already gone. Her complaints fall onto deaf ears. Good, haters get the boot.
You stumble around until you eventually reach the top of the stairs. In your drunken haze, you use your ability, Almost Transparent Blue, and a zipper appears under your shirt, around where your stomach is. You open it and pull your gun out before quickly deactivating your ability immediately after.
The floor appears deserted. Still, as an unsafe safety precaution, you open the window and with wobbly legs balance on the sill. You walk on it, jumps aren't necessary―the gaps are narrow enough for you to simply take larger steps than usual between them rather than pummeling to your death with a risky leap.
Once you reach the third window, you see two figures seemingly having some sort of brawl that, after a few seconds of observation, makes you realize that they don't have any real intention of killing each other. Brown hair, brown eyes. The other guy has some kind of embarrassing hat on, however, his fashion choices are beside the point.
When they halt their erratic movements, you aim your weapon and shoot thrice through the window without a second thought. The glass shatters, though you're surprised to see that you missed, be it because of your current state of mind and how everything seems to be a little fuzzy or be it because of the ongoing fight. You don't miss your shots often, though you suppose everyone has off-days.
They stare at you like a maniac who has just randomly shot at them. You stare back.
Weakness #4: You make stupid decisions and don't like thinking things through, opting to go with what sounds flashier or more exciting. If your actions so far haven't proved this point already (especially when you randomly started walking on the window sills, unprovoked), then surely your next ones will.
With newfound conviction, you throw the gun through the window and watch as it shatters further, allowing you to jump in fully.
Just as the midget one is about to say something, perhaps ask you a question or verbally abuse you for ruining their homoerotic scuffle with your obnoxious gunshots, the boy who tried questioning you earlier bursts in while holding a man in his tiger paws. Well, this is a new development. You don't remember him having those a few hours ago.
"Dazai! I got Fujieta," he announces, causing the midget's jaw to slack as if he has been outdone.
Oh shit. You fucked up.