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“Get up.” Akutagawa snarled, lip curled in disdain. Kyouka trembled on her forearms and her knees, chest heaving with exhaustion. Blood dripped from the gash on her cheek and stained the front of her clothing that clung to her with sweat. Tired. She was so unbelievably and unbearably tired. Her eyes fluttered with the phantom of sleep, yet she pushed herself to a sitting position and attempted to stand, but her knees locked from overuse and she was stuck, unable to move. Next thing she knew, Akutagawa’s fist was gripping her hair and pulling her to her feet.
“I told you to get up, did I not?” The words were no more than a whisper, a ghost that trailed along Kyouka’s back and into her ears and mind, echoing, reverberating and bouncing around her skull. She tried to speak,
wanted
to speak, but her body was no longer her own. Every passing second in silence only amplified the rage she could feel blown onto her face in Akutagawa’s exhale, hurting her scalp from the pull of her hair, poisoning her with the venom in his words. She willed her tongue to move, to break the silence, to appease her mentor, but it was futile and her voice was useless. She looked at him with widened blue eyes and a mouth that chattered in fear, in rhythm with her shaking body. Dull, black eyes met her gaze, blank save for the waves of anger crashing within them, and she could feel the slap, the punch, the
pain,
it was coming and she couldn’t avoid it, couldn’t move away from it and —
Nothing. Impossibly, nothing. Her face unscrewed and her eyes unflinched and opened as she turned back to look at him. Was she jumping to conclusions, or were there traces of concern lining Akutagawa’s grimace? Even so, she couldn’t still her quivering form as she stared deep into his eyes. Black tendrils of his gift, Rashōmon, floated above the ground at the frayed edges of his coat and the tight grip on her hair released, and she collapsed the short distance to the ground on her knees. Her mentor coughed into the hand that he had taken back, a dry, hacking sound, before beginning to speak to her in cold, clipped tones.
“Go. That will suffice, for today. However, I expect you here at six sharp tomorrow morning. I will not tolerate lateness. Get fixed up at the infirmary.”
He paused, as though something he wanted to say was dancing along his tongue, playing on his lips. Desperately — and irrationally — Kyouka hoped it would be praise. A congratulations. A commendment for her improvements. As the silence wore on, however, she came to the realisation that even if those words she craved had been unspoken in her mentor’s mouth, by now he most definitely would have swallowed them. Dejected but not all that surprised, she nodded. “Thank you, sir. I do not . . . deserve such kindness.” Voice small, tinny and dying out, she let her sentence trail off into quiet, fiddling with her hands.
She could feel the bruises from today’s training begin to blossom along her frame, the cuts start to scab, the tears recede. For two weeks, every month, Kouyou would send her to Akutagawa for training, believing that with abilities so similar it would greatly benefit her. For Kyouka, this decision had been hell. Now she was trained half and half between them, sweet and sour, soft and hard. She seemed to have been blessed today, though mildly, so with graciousness she accepted it.
With a gentle bow, she turned and headed the direction of her apartment, harsh footsteps spattering along the asphalt.
“You have . . . made progress.”
The words brought her to a halt and she swivelled round — miserably excited — to face Akutagawa.
“Pardon?” A new octave of her voice unlocked and filled with sweetness. Was this the day she had been hoping for?
“Your training has . . . has benefitted you well. Continue like this.” Akutagawa stopped, looking at her strangely as her chest rose and fall with elation. “Afternoon.”
With that, he inclined his head at her, almost imperceptibly, before making his way towards the ‘HQ’ of the Port Mafia. It was all Kyouka could do to stop a stupid grin sliding onto her face, but after having not smiled in such a long time, she didn’t think she could. So, instead, she let her lips twitch upwards slightly as she clung to her skirt.
“Fuck, have you seen that kid?” Akutagawa’s steps paused at the foot of the stairs. A group of about four men, balding, red-faced and stocky, stood just outside the exit door. Fat, lit cigarettes bobbed up and down between their lips as they spoke.
“Which one, ya’ pudgy bastard. There’s a lotta fuckin’ kids around here.”
Laughter spilled from their mouths, loud and drunken-sounding. Unsurprising, considering the amount of beer cans littering the pavement where they stood. Akutagawa abhorred litterers.
“Not that freaky one, Q or whatever the hell. Blackish hair. Quiet.”
Blood pounded furiously in his ears as Rashōmon bared her fangs, swirling and encircling him in his rage. Surely they didn’t mean Gin? No. There was no way. If they did . . . Akutagawa’s fists tightened. Who did they think they were? Still, he had to be sure they meant his sister. He couldn’t go around murdering Port Mafia members, especially not with his kind of status — that of a dog. He took a step closer to the door. Just to make sure his ears weren’t deceiving him.
“Akutagawa Gin?” One of the less lively ones questioned, picking at his golden tooth. “If ya mean her, ya’d better watch it. Got a brother, she has. People say he’s completely fuckin’ feral. Like a rabid dog or somethin’.”
Another clicked his teeth in agreement, but the original conversation starter sighed in frustration.
“No, not any of them pests. Maybe her hair’s a bit bluer. Wears a red kimono or somethin’ like that. Y’know, I think she actually works for that Akutagawa girl’s brother. Trains under him, somethin’ along those lines.” He chuckled darkly. “What I wouldn’t give to put her to work.”
Akutagawa’s stomach churned. ‘To work’? With certainty he knew they meant Kyouka, but . . . well, Kyouka was merely a child of fourteen. They couldn’t mean the kind of work he was assuming, surely? Although, this was the Mafia. It was rampant with criminals and demons alike, so could he really say with confidence that their conversation had innocent meaning? Dirty fingernails that Akutagawa knew were his own dug into the skin of his hands. He chose to ignore the indents they made.
“Fuck, man, ya’ can’t say that kinda thing ‘round here. Ya’ never know when one of them might come ‘round the corner.” One of the younger men laughed raucously as the rest of the group joined in, because of course they were infallible. No one could question their authority, especially not low-ranking women in the Mafia with no status.
“I mean, I see where he’s comin’ from. She’s pretty quiet, isn’t she? Submissive.” He scratched his stubble thoughtfully. “I wonder what she’d be like for me. Probably’d do everything ya’ asked her to, wouldn’t she?”
With a jolt, Akutagawa watched as the man with the golden tooth winked, his friends licking their lips. Practically salivating. Over a child.
The stomach that had been churning before now lurched dangerously, threatening to expel its meagre contents onto the floor. Pale white eyebrows furrowed and pale white hands trembled with rage. Bastards, all of them. Though, what could he do? It wasn’t as if he could just go out there and start a fight, at least, not without repercussions. Despite Dazai being long gone, the thought of punishment, no matter how small, always sent Akutagawa into a spiral of cold, hard fear.
Flashes of memories attempted to be forgotten built houses in his head, intending to stay a while. Memories of hands, cold hands, and warm beds, small wads of cash and stale breath and alcohol, and closed eyes and open mouths and whispered words against his ears, against his lips, heat roaming his frail, frigid, childlike body —
“Makes you wonder what kind of training he’s really putting her up to. Maybe that’s why she’s so fuckin’ scared of him.”
A snicker. A snap. A primal scream and a primal rage and Akutagawa was gone. He — he would never, could never, wouldn’t even consider it. Never, never had he looked at Kyouka like that, looked at anyone like that. Not after what he had to do.
Rashōmon exploded into fiery splinters and tangles of black vines that twisted and turned into the bodies of those men. Those men whose mouths had been open for laughter, for vile words, for disgusting innuendos, those men who now unhinged and cracked their jaws in screams of agony as a horrifying monster, a demon from the depths of hell, erupted from the ground to drag them back where they belonged.
Within moments, all that was left on the pavement were cigarettes stained red, chunks of flesh and rivulets of blood that still dripped from the surrounding walls and the tails of Akutagawa’s coat.
Beep. Beep. “Hello? Yes, I’d like to request the clean-up crew. Particularly discreet today. No documentation made. Thank you.” Beep.
A silence followed the gruesome wake. Then a harsh cough, footsteps, and silence once again.
Teacups clinked against porcelain saucers and tea was sipped with etiquette. A plate of biscuits and ‘nibbles’, as Kouyou called them, was the centrepiece of a table adorned with doilies and floral patterns. There was an air of elegance exuded as Kouyou tilted her head politely towards her guest.
“Akutagawa Ryunnosuke. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Her tone was gentle and clear as she stirred her tea, yet Akutagawa wrung his hands anxiously. He always felt uncertain around higher ranking members. Clearing his throat and swallowing a cough for fear of it being impolite, he began.
“I’m here to talk to you about someone. A — a protégé of yours.”
Kouyou’s eyes turned to slits. “I hope this isn’t what you came to me about a few years ago. I’ve told you time and again that Gin is unable to attend school as a member of the Mafia—”
“No, I — uh, no. That’s — that’s not who I’m here about, if you will excuse my ignorance.” Akutagawa cut her off, averting his gaze as hers hardened. Pulling out a napkin, he coughed into it as gently as possible, knee bouncing aggressively underneath the table. What had made him so bold?
His eyes flitted between the ground and Kouyou’s face, the seconds ticking by with an intensity that Akutagawa didn’t want to break. Finally, after forty-nine seconds, (yes, he counted), Kouyou’s lips melted from a terse line to a smirk.
“You’ve become more confident, Akutagawa. I congratulate you. However, I hope you won’t make a habit of interrupting me.”
Akutagawa shook his head quickly with a mumbled, “No, ma’am. I apologise,” and cleared his throat again.
“About your protégé. I meant Kyouka Izumi. I have . . . I have a few concerns regarding her.”
He spoke softly, as though speaking any louder would be admitting he was worried. That, unbelievably, he cared. A little.
Kouyou inclined her head, saying unspokenly for him to continue. With a hasty nod, he spoke.
“Well, it’s a sensitive subject. Not something I could talk with her about without immense discomfort and embarrassment, so I thought it best that you asked her.”
Tinkling laughter filled the air as Kouyou brought her fan to her face, to cover her red-lipped smile. The fan was pink — the same colour as the walls, tablecloth and Kouyou’s kimono.
“Akutagawa, surely you don’t mean to tell me you are here solely because you are worried about Kyouka’s, for lack of better words, bodily development? Did something happen?”
Papery white skin flushed red and Akutagawa’s eyes widened uncomfortably. He stuttered through a cough, as though trying not to expel his lungs, a handkerchief catching the blood that flecked out.
“No, no, I — It’s not that.” He said, embarrassed. “She . . . well, as of late, it has been brought to my attention that . . . older members of this organisation, men specifically, have been— have been interested in her.” A cough. A hitch of breath. “Sexually.”
Kouyou’s laughter had died out as he spoke, but it ended abruptly at his final words. Thin eyebrows drew together in a line, as did her lips.
“I know — I know that this isn’t uncommon, for women in the Mafia but . . . but she’s a child. She’s only fourteen, ma’am. I was — I was wondering if you could ask her about it. Keep her out of harm’s way. Life in the Mafia is hard, and it’s cruel, but she shouldn’t have to be unnecessarily subjected to something like that. I want . . . I want to keep her alive. She’s never safe, not here, but if you could watch out for her, like you do for my sister, I would greatly appreciate it.”
Akutagawa stopped, watching as the colour drained from her face. He was out of line, he knew, but he couldn’t stand by and watch another child be ruined, tainted by this evil place.
“I hope you know that I do not do favours for you, Akutagawa. I watch out for Gin because she is one of my own, not because you asked,” Kouyou replied sharply, nostrils flared.
Akutagawa breathed nervously. She could kill him right now. Perhaps this was a mistake.
“However . . . since Kyouka also belongs to me, and shows promising work, I will keep her close. I trust that is all? Surely you will not ask any more of me, you insolent young man.”
Tutting and speaking in harsh tones, Akutagawa crumpled a little under her disapproval, but straightened when he noticed how her eyes twinkled without malice. She was teasing him.
“Yes, that is all, ma’am. I thank you greatly.” With a tight-lipped twitch of the corners of his mouth and a low bow, he pushed his chair underneath the table and padded away, silently, like a cat, not the dog he was so called.
Kouyou sipped her tea, watching him leave, pinky finger raised. What a kid, she thought. What a kid.
Posters fluttered in the wind, pinned to the windows and walls of the Mafia-owned buildings.
FIVE MEN — _____ _____, _____ _____, _____ _____, _____ _____, _____ _____, MISSING. IF FOUND PLEASE CONTACT __________ FOR MORE INFORMATION.
Every time Akutagawa walked past them, his heart thumped, and he couldn’t stop the dark, breathy laughter that clawed its way past his lips.
Kyouka was being kept in a controlled area — Kouyou had told him it was unnecessary, but what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. So, she didn’t know anything about what happened, or what was happening currently. Ignorance was bliss, that was what Akutagawa told himself. And so it was. Kyouka was oblivious, and Akutagawa would keep it that way.
The harsh training regime was back in order — a moment of weakness was what last week had been. Now, however, instead of constantly pushing Kyouka past her limits, as soon as she could no longer stand, she was sent away. Akutagawa hated how much he wished that was how it happened when he was in Kyouka’s position, and Dazai was in his.
But it was no use dwelling on the past, poking at old wounds, infecting them and making them spread. Instead he slapped a plaster on them, bandaged up his bruised and battered hands, ignored the pain and used those hands to claw his way to the top.
No longer would he be known as the Port Mafia’s lowly dog. If he was going to be a dog, he may as well be a feared one.
A hellhound, perhaps.