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If you asked an ordinary person in the downtown Yokohama area that day, they would have said it was a pleasant spring day; the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and a few members of the Decay of Angels were cheerfully strolling down the retail strip.
Ah, yes, a normal day in their lovely port city: a globally feared crime syndicate walking down the street like they were a group of rowdy teenagers who had just gotten off school for the year.
Why were these hardened criminals in such spirits? Well, it all started with a mission.
It was nothing special; just a basic kidnapping gig. They were supposed to abduct some big-shot American's strategist, to cripple his internal affairs and prepare for the looming war.
Of course, they would hold her ransom and quite possibly torture her for information, but that was all water under the bridge.
Though, if you asked Nikolai, there were much more... entertaining things to do. Namely, harassing his dear coworker.
"Oh, Dos-kun~!"
Facade of cool apathy slipping, Fyodor looked over his shoulder back at the literal clown behind him. "What now?"
He dearly hoped that it was something relatively normal; on their last mission, Nikolai had pulled out the tiger-boy's leg from his coat (he didn't know how the kid kept growing them back) after letting out a gleeful peal of laughter. If Fyodor didn't know better, he would say the man was clinically insane.
Actually, did he know any better? Being "completely sane" was doubtful for anyone in this city, much less a ruthless murderer.
In any case, Nikolai had something up his sleeve, and Fyodor really didn't feel the need to know what.
Of course, Nikolai felt the exact opposite. Smiling ominously, he taunted, "Guess what I have~! If you don't get it in three tries, I get a free pass next time I try to off you!"
"No."
"I said guess! If you don't, I'll kill our mark before we can kidnap her!"
Suppressing a sigh, Fyodor complied. Crime didn't pay well enough for him to willingly deal with this. "Is it the tiger boy's leg again? What is this now, the seventh time this month?"
"Ooh, good guess, but no!" A familiar, manic glint entered his eye, and Fyodor felt a creeping sense of dread crawl its way up his spine.
He didn't believe in any God in ways that mattered, but at that moment, Fyodor Dostoyevsky began to pray.
"Don't tell me…"
Visible eye going comically wide, Nikolai gasped, "Oh! Have you done it? Have you figured out the clown's game?"
"Sigma."
"Ah? What about our dear friend?"
"Your coat."
A muffled scream echoed from somewhere in the vicinity.
All too innocently, Nikolai's mouth opened widely in mock surprise. "Me? Trap our lovely associate? You think so little of me, Fedya!"
"Let him out." Why did this always happen to him? Forget Sigma, Fyodor was the one who would throttle him if this charade went on any longer.
With a pout that looked out of place on a man his size, Nikolai acquiesced. However, it was more malicious compliance than anything; the rate at which he was pulling Sigma out was astoundingly slow.
Fyodor could do nothing but watch as a frantically writhing Sigma was hauled out of the coat, clearly fighting for his life somewhere within the folds.
First his feet came out, which appeared to be making a valiant effort to kick Nikolai's head clean off once his knees followed. Honestly, who could fault the poor sap for trying to murder him?
If it had been Fyodor, his corpse would already be disposed of.
Next was the torso, and to be frank, the position he was in looked immensely uncomfortable. Arms pinned to his sides, veins were popping out of his hands at the sheer effort of trying to reach Nikolai's neck without the help of shoulders.
Dear god, was that a knife clenched in his white-knuckled fist? Where did he get that from? What did Nikolai even keep in that ability space of his?
Oh dear. Here came the head… and yep, spewing expletives. Huh, that's a first.
"Hey, Nikolai, what the actual fuck?"
Fyodor had never seen the docile casino owner this angry, not even when a bankrupt patron had upended a pool table and tackled the dealer. Well, this was bound to be interesting, at least.
Unsurprisingly, Nikolai was completely unfazed in the face of his ire, crowing, "Yes, that's it! Come at me with all your might! Yes, yes, ye—"
Sigma decked him.
Nikolai fell flat upon the pavement, knocked out.
Hm, Fyodor mused, Maybe I should be taking lessons from Sigma on how to shut him up.
He spun on his heel, eyes full of murderous intent now set on Fyodor.
Detachedly, Fyodor began to wonder if this was how he died. Imagine the headlines: International Terrorist Felled by Own Accomplice; Decay of Angels Finished by Casino Owner?
Though, he never got to start mentally drafting the article. For all of his rage, Sigma must have exhausted himself, seeing as he, too, was now out cold on the pavement.
In the middle of the street, nonetheless.
Fyodor, and two lifeless bodies. It's not like that was a new situation for him, but what else could go wrong?
Screw this job. Kamui could shove his entire head up his ass and find another team of lackeys to take care of the gig, because he was totally, completely done.
Now… What to do with these idiots?
Actually, no. What he needed to worry about now was dragging these buffoons off the street before the Armed Detective Agency found them.
Ugh. Fyodor hoped that wherever that stupid Agency was, they were having a worse time than him. Especially that stupid Dazai…
Somewhere across the city, a certain detective sneezed into his instant noodles, ruining them.
He wrinkled his nose—it was really the worst thing to happen in Yokohama that day, to be sure.