Chapter Text
There’s a metallic clanging echoing through the warehouse yard as Chuuya shuts the car door. The off-kilter clash of steel on steel mixes with the roar of truck engines and the rhythmic beep, beep of a forklift alarm; a strange cacophony of work-sounds, but Chuuya doesn’t flinch at the noise.
His phone rings, a harsh trill that only adds to the commotion around him, but he doesn’t bat an eyelid as he smoothly draws the phone from inside his jacket pocket.
Noise is nothing to Chuuya Nakahara. Chaos is in his nature.
He’s worked for the Port Mafia since his teen years, but even before that, he’d had gangland in his blood, running as a kid with scrappy little street gangs, getting into fights, winning them.
He’d worked his way up from there, all the way up to executive level. It hadn’t been easy – very little in Chuuya’s life has – but it had been worth it. His job now, strangely enough, is less about getting into fights and more about avoiding them. Careful management of time and resources is key for a beast as large as the Port Mafia, and you truly do have to pick your battles.
He puts the phone to his ear. “Boss. What can I do for you?” He doesn’t pause even as he listens to Mori’s voice on the other end, continuing to head across the empty yard towards the side-door for pedestrian use that will take him into the enormous warehouse.
“Yesterday’s raid? Yeah, I’m at the docks site now.” He shrugs his overcoat off his shoulders as he walks, catching it in one hand and folding it over his elbow without letting go of the phone – an effortless movement. “No, Hirotsu’s been handling the asset management, but I’ll be speaking to him presently. I can update you as soon as I’m finished here.”
An enormous betting ring had, over the last few years, got its hooks into the underworld of Yokohama. Not wholly unexpected – it would be ridiculous to think that the Port Mafia was the only illegal enterprise operating in such a busy port city. The other organisation hadn’t even crossed their radar until they’d started to encroach on mafia-held gambling operations, at which point, they quickly became a problem. A large amount of custom, resources and cash being dragged away from the Port Mafia’s influence? Of course, they had to go.
A gaggle of lower-ranking mafiosi in plain suits are gathered at the warehouse door, waiting to grant Chuuya access. They all bow or incline their heads in acknowledgement of his executive rank as he passes, but say nothing, mindful of his phone conversation. It’s obvious they’ve been expecting him, although he doesn’t recognise any of their faces. It’s true that Chuuya has been the one to oversee most of the operation, but it’s been mostly from a distance. Resource allocation, logistical organisation – that’s more of his concern these days, even if he does itch sometimes to be back on a battlefield, the scent of blood in the air – this is his lot, and let no one say he doesn’t do it well.
That said, the separation he maintains from the grit of the conflict on the ground can, at times, leave him a little out of the loop. Mori says something else to him, and Chuuya frowns, immediately taken aback.
“The… the what?” He stops walking. “No, nobody’s informed me of that. When you said assets I’d assumed you meant weapons, not… ”
Hybrids. The operation they’d moved in on had been a hybrid fighting ring, and Chuuya had had no idea until the whole thing was over.
“It’s not a problem,” he reassures Mori quickly, “I’m sure Hirotsu has it all in hand. I’ll check in with him straightaway and he can give me a rundown of the situation. Yes, okay. That’s fine, of course. I’ll call again later. Alright. Goodbye.”
He ends the call as efficiently as he’d answered it, and back into his pocket goes the phone.
The fact that hybrids are involved doesn’t really bother him. He doesn’t have much contact with them in his day-to-day life, to be honest. Some people he knows vaguely in the upper echelons of the mafia have one or two at home, as a companion, but Chuuya’s never felt the need. He’s got the money, sure, but looking after a whole other person is really not his style. He’s been busy enough.
“Hirotsu,” Chuuya strides into the warehouse, calling out to his squad commander.
“Thank you for coming,” Hirotsu says, tipping his head in respectful greeting.
“It’s just a check-in,” Chuuya says, hopefully reassuringly. “How have things been since yesterday?”
“Good,” Hirotsu answers. “We’ve made quick progress getting through everything that was seized during the raid.”
“The boss tells me there’s some live inventory involved.” Chuuya raises an eyebrow. “Can you update me on that?”
“Of course.” If Hirotsu is bothered by the fact that his superior had been relatively clueless until now, then, well. He’s enough of an experienced professional not to show it. “Obviously, we managed to take back control of a lot of the cash and resources associated with the rival betting ring, which is a positive in and of itself, but the guys on the ground took advantage of the situation to secure some of their best fighters, too.”
Chuuya doesn’t stop himself from letting the surprise show on his face. He’s been known to wear his emotions somewhat on his sleeve, but it’s never been a disadvantage to him yet. “That is an unexpected boon. Do we expect to retain them all?”
Hirotsu looks thoughtful. “These sorts of fighting rings are not the best environments. Many are highly reactive, or outright feral, and we’ve needed to keep everyone somewhat captive until we can determine the best course of action. However, a great number of them are well suited for dangerous work – hybrid types like tigers, wolves, bears, that sort of thing. An even greater number are simply incredibly strong, and will do well if they accept offers of working for the mafia.” He eyes Chuuya carefully. “Obviously, it’s a risk to take on so many personnel from a rival organisation, even if they weren’t necessarily staying there voluntarily. We’d just need approval before proceeding with anything.”
“That I can do for you,” Chuuya says.
“You think it’s a good idea?”
“I agree that it’s risky. But I think the potential benefits could outweigh that risk if we structure it right. Low-level work only, real careful management, you know the drill.”
Hirotsu’s eyes glint behind his monocle. “Is that you saying yes?”
“It’s not really a ‘yes’ I can give,” Chuuya admits. “I can recruit on a one-to-one level, but for something like this I’d have to raise it with the boss.”
Hirotsu bows, and, taking that to be the end of the conversation, steps away; which gives Chuuya the space to pull out his phone again and quickly hit redial.
“Chuuya.” Mori is obviously surprised, but his voice is not cold. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so quickly. Is Hirotsu’s squad that efficient?”
“They’re efficient for sure,” Chuuya says, “But not quite done with everything yet. I just wanted to run something by you.”
“Go ahead.”
“The inventory acquired during yesterday’s raid includes a number of hybrid fighters. How would you feel about extending some offers to work for us?”
There’s a brief pause. Chuuya hopes that that’s Mori thinking about it, and not stunned into silence by the audacity of the proposal.
“I think it could work,” Mori says eventually, and Chuuya allows himself the smallest rush of relief that his snap judgement had been correct. “How would you propose it be done?”
“We spend the next day or so going through everything – and everyone – with a fine-toothed comb,” Chuuya says. “We determine on a case-by-case basis who we can use, and who we can’t.”
“Sounds good,” Mori says, “But what if they don’t want to work for the Port Mafia?”
Chuuya shrugs. “Anyone left over, there’s a governmental agency that deals with rogue hybrids. We can make it their problem.”
Mori laughs at that. “Fair enough. Any other problems you can foresee?”
“Some of them may be too vicious,” Chuuya admits, “Or too feral. They may not be of use to us – or, worst case scenario, they could be too dangerous to keep around at all.”
“I trust you to exercise your best judgement on what to keep and what not to,” Mori replies, “Or to delegate the choice to someone whose judgement you also trust. It’s up to you.”
Chuuya grins. “Thank you, boss.”
“I leave the matter in your capable hands,” Mori says, and Chuuya can practically hear the man’s smile.
He hangs up the phone and puts it back in his pocket, still smiling himself. So far, everything is flowing smoothly. Not only have they got a major competitor out of the way, they've also managed to seize additional power for their own ranks. It's a win-win.
And once everything is properly redistributed, Chuuya will probably never think about this operation again.
A full forty-eight hours later, everything seems more or less in order as Chuuya passes through the warehouse again – already most of the best fighters seem to have been snapped up, taken in on the lower echelons of the organisation, most likely for brute force grunt work. Empty cage after empty cage fills row after row in the spacious warehouse, each with a small clipboard attached showing the necessary paperwork completed.
It's the sort of organised that Chuuya likes, as an executive – teams of subordinates carrying out their work neatly without him having to step in and micromanage.
As he reaches the end of the row, he sees Tachihara, one of the squad leaders, standing by the open warehouse doors, directing delivery vans in and out. He waves Chuuya over, and Chuuya takes the remaining few meters at a light jog.
“Hey,” Chuuya says as he approaches, “How are things?”
“Great,” Tachihara says, checking his own clipboard. “Mostly wrapped up, to be honest.”
“Glad to know you have things in hand,” Chuuya remarks, and Tachihara nods once in acknowledgement. “Were there any assets deemed too dangerous to be of use?”
“I’d say about fifteen.”
“What’s their status?”
“Sedated,” Tachihara says, “And ready for transport. They’ll fall under the government’s jurisdiction.”
“We have a contact for that?”
“Yep. Some pencil-pusher named Sakaguchi in Special Hybrid Ops. He can handle all the paperwork, too.”
“Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”
“There's just one who's still a problem, though,” Tachihara says to Chuuya. “Over there.” He points towards a heavy titanium cage in one corner of the warehouse. Chuuya can't make out details from here, but there's someone or something huddled inside, towards the back wall.
“A problem how?” Chuuya asks.
“We can't even get close enough to sedate him. Vicious little thing, he is. He's bitten six people and scratched the hell out of a further twelve. Nearly took out several eyes and fingers, too.”
“Damn,” Chuuya says. “I can take a look myself if you need?”
He knows he's more physically strong than a lot of people. More than people expect of him, given his size and build. He might be able to help in this situation too.
“If you can, that would be a great help. Just be careful, though. I think he truly is feral. I'm not sure he even understands human language at all.”
“Not at all?”
“Don’t think so. Not that he’ll let us even try to communicate. Some of the guys said they couldn’t even get him to take food or water.”
“Crazy fucker,” Chuuya says, which makes Tachihara laugh.
“You’re welcome to try with him if you’d like. But like I said – be careful.”
What Chuuya finds when he heads over to the cage surprises him. He was expecting a great hulking wild beast of a man that he'd need to use immense physical strength to overpower.
Instead, he's greeted with a skinny and somewhat bedraggled cat hybrid, huddled in one corner, dressed in what might have once been a neat white dress shirt and slacks but is now reduced to mostly rags, a torn black overcoat over his shoulders, feet bare. He's also covered in bandages - around his wrists, neck, face, legs, even his tail. The one eye that Chuuya can see glares out at him, a dull, exhausted sort of anger smouldering behind the gaze.
It's the bandages that tip Chuuya off to the fact that he really is dealing with someone dangerous here, despite appearances.
Chuuya might not have been involved with this organisation before the mafia interfered, but he recalls enough about hybrid fighting pits to know that they're almost always a fight to the death.
It doesn't make sense, at first, given that the other fighters they'd seized had been more deadly predators on the whole; tigers and reptiles and poisonous things, whereas what he's looking at now seems to be nothing more than a mixed breed housecat – but, for this straggly little cat to have as many injuries as he does, yet still be alive… he must have fought hundreds of times, and won every single bout.
It's a little terrifying to process.
Chuuya stands as close to the bars of the cage as he dares.
“Hey,” he says.
The bandaged cat hisses at him. A good start.
“You'll forgive me for not coming any closer,” Chuuya remarks, “I've been reliably informed that you're a bitey little bastard.”
The cat just glares in response, ears flattened to his head.
“I've also been told,” Chuuya adds, softer now, “That you've been refusing food and water. When was the last time you ate anything?”
Still only glaring, one yellow eye almost glowing in the shadow.
Chuuya sighs and takes the energy bar he'd been saving out of his coat pocket. He'd wanted it for later, but whatever. He has another pack of six at home.
“Here,” he says, unwrapping it and breaking off a piece to pass through the bars, “For god's sake, eat something.”
He gets a fistful of claw marks across the back of his hand for his trouble, and the food goes flying.
“Fuck,” Chuuya exclaims, “Alright, I get it. You probably don't trust it if it comes from me, right?”
All he gets in response is another hiss and narrowed eyes.
“I'll be right back,” Chuuya says, straightening up, “Don't go anywhere. Although,” he smirks a little, “I guess you kind of can't.”
He gets a quiet growl in response to that, which he supposes he deserved, but the back of his hand is starting to bleed and his patience is really too short for all of this.
Chuuya thinks about it as he leaves the warehouse district and heads towards the main road. He wonders if it's true what Tachihara had said about the savage cat not being able to understand human speech. Chuuya certainly doesn't seem to be getting anywhere trying to talk with him, but when he thinks about it logically... there's no way a skinny little housecat could have physically overpowered opponents in a fight. He had to have won some other way – to have outmanoeuvred them, outrun them, outsmarted them. In order for him to still be alive, surely his intellect has to be on another level.
Chuuya could probably use someone like that on his side.
When Chuuya comes back, he's got a bag from a convenience store in one hand.
“I don't know exactly what it is that cats like,” he says, sitting down in front of the cage again. “I figured fish might be a good bet. How do you feel about tuna?”
There’s a brief flash of curiosity in that one yellow eye, but it's quickly dulled.
Ah-hah. So he definitely understands language in a vague sense, anyway.
“It's not the most environmentally friendly,” Chuuya explains, pulling the can of tuna out of the bag, “But at least this way you can be sure I didn't tamper with the food. See? It's sealed in plastic and inside a can. You know this is safe, look. You can check for yourself.”
He pushes the can inside the cage, just enough that he feels his hands are out of scratching range.
The cat hybrid leans forward, paws at the can once, before sitting back, ignoring it.
Chuuya is at a loss again.
“I can... open it for you? If you want?”
He has his pocket-knife with him which will probably suffice as a can opener.
There's no response. Giving up, Chuuya decides to open the can anyway. Worst case scenario, he's got something he can have for dinner himself. It's kind of a struggle, with both the plastic and the metal and the clumsy unfit-for-purpose grip of his pocketknife, but he manages it more or less neatly.
The recalcitrant cat looks at it, and does nothing.
“Alright,” Chuuya says, exasperated. “If you're gonna be that damn fussy about it. I brought water, too. That's sealed on top with plastic as well. You'll at least have water, right?”
He takes it out of the bag. He sees the hybrid in the cage look at it once before his gaze flicks away. Chuuya sees him very quietly inhale, then exhale, the very smallest of sighs.
Oh.
“You're... starving yourself,” Chuuya says softly, more a realisation out loud than an intentional remark. “On purpose. Why?”
The cat says nothing. Chuuya still isn't sure if he even can.
He tries a more direct line of questioning. “Do you want to die?”
In response, the tiniest, almost imperceptible nod.
So... he definitely understands and can communicate. Chuuya just sort of wishes this wasn't the conversation they were having.
“That’s bullshit,” Chuuya says, his admittedly short temper already flaring. “What's your deal? You got out of the death-pits and only now you don't have to fight for it every weekend you decided living isn’t worth it anymore?”
That dull, cold stare is all that answers him, and Chuuya almost feels the hopelessness in it chill him.
“Fine,” he snaps, “Do whatever you want. It's no skin off my nose if you live or die anyway.”
He picks up his coat and the empty plastic bag from the convenience store, and storms out of the warehouse. He leaves the bottle of water and the can of tuna.
It's not strictly true that he doesn't care.
Yes, he knows hundreds of hybrids like this one had fought and died every day while he'd been wholly oblivious and uncaring. He knows there's probably nothing that special about this particular cat that makes him any more worth saving than any other.
But... still. Chuuya thinks about the kind of mind that can outplay a bear or a wolf six times a cat's muscle mass at least and come out on top every time, and he thinks it might be... a waste, somehow. He thinks of the brief glow of interest in a simple can of tuna, and thinks that someone really ought to have told him there's so much more in living.
He leaves the bottle of water and the can of tuna. Hopes that if he comes back in the morning, maybe at least one of them will be gone.
When Chuuya heads back to the warehouse the following day – because of course he goes back, despite his insistence that he really, truly, does not care – the water and the fish are both untouched. The plastic seal on the bottle of water hasn't even been broken. The stubborn cat lies more or less where Chuuya had left him, only now slumped on the floor, his strength failing him as he slowly starves.
“God fucking damn you,” Chuuya growls at him, slamming one fist into the bars of the cage. It makes a hollow ringing sound, and the cat hybrid hisses in response, but it's weaker than yesterday, an empty imitation of real anger. “Are you that determined to die?”
No response. Chuuya doesn't really know why he expects anything else at this point.
He squats down so that his gaze is more level with the cat's.
“I know you can understand me,” he says, just about holding his temper in check, “So can you talk? If you can, at least tell me why you're so hell-bent on leaving this world. You're obviously highly intelligent, so it doesn't make sense to me. Why would someone like you give up on living a free life when you've barely even experienced what that means?”
Still only a flat, yellow-eyed glare as reply.
“C'mon,” Chuuya says, “At least let someone hear your last words, if you have them.”
“This.... wor...ld.” At last, he says something, although his voice is hoarse and barely audible, each word slow and laboured like it pains him just to push the air through his throat. “Is... aw..ful.”
“No shit,” Chuuya replies, although his heart is silently pounding just from having finally got an answer, knowing that the sullen little cat can talk, after all. “I'm in the mafia. You think I don't know that?”
“Stay…ing... alive....has... no... val..ue.”
“Bullshit,” Chuuya says, for the second time in less than a day. His temper is fraying again. “There's always something.”
The hybrid in the cage just sighs and looks away.
“Listen,” Chuuya says, “I know for sure they weren't feeding you gourmet shit in that fighting ring. Isn't there anything you've never eaten before – something you always wanted to try?”
That one golden feline eye focuses on Chuuya again. There's not much life left in that gaze, but Chuuya remembers the vague flash of interest, the curiosity and unchecked hunger, when he'd brought the can of tuna.
“Whatever it is, I can get it for you,” Chuuya insists. “Seriously. I'm an executive here, I can pull some strings. Wouldn't it be stupid to die without at least trying something you always dreamed of? While you have the chance?”
The cat takes a shaky breath in. He closes his one visible eye. Is he steeling himself for the inevitable, or does he just not want to look at Chuuya?
Then, very, very quietly; “Can...ned.... cr...ab.”
Canned crab. That's it? That's seriously it?
Well, at least Chuuya had been more or less on the money in his estimation that cats like seafood.
“Stay there,” he orders as he stands up. He can get something as simple as canned crab from the supermarket on the main street. He can go and be back quickly.
He just hopes it's enough.
“Don't you dare fucking die on me while I'm gone,” he warns.
Strangely, the cat... smirks at him.
“Yeah,” Chuuya says, exasperated, “You'd find that real damn funny, wouldn't you. Making me haul ass all the way to the store for no fucking reason. I'll say it again. Don't. Fucking. Die.”
Chuuya returns not even half an hour later. He won't admit it even if pressed, but he took his motorbike to get to and from the supermarket even though it's just around the corner, in walking distance.
Somehow he feels like he shouldn't be taking any chances.
The can he's already pulling out of the bag is, luckily, ring-pull, so he doesn't have to fuss with his pocket-knife today.
He opens the can, and pushes it through the bars of the cage.
“Here,” he says, “Canned crab, as promised.”
He watches as the cat tenses his weakened muscles, shifts one arm underneath his body to try to push himself up... and then drops again, Chuuya's heart falling with him. He's run out of strength. He can't even move enough to feed himself. Chuuya swears he's not imagining the sudden longing in that eye, the one not hidden by bandages. The worn out suicidal little cat... wants to live, at least long enough to have a mouthful of canned crab.
“Hold on,” Chuuya says. “Just hold on.”
He looks around the warehouse. As expected, it's deserted, his other subordinates long since having finished their work in relocating the rest of the seized hybrids. Thinking quickly, Chuuya draws his gun from its holster.
“This'll be loud,” he warns, “Sorry.”
He sees that one yellow eye go very wide just for a second, before Chuuya fires two precise shots in rapid succession, breaking the heavy padlock and bar on the front of the cage. Later, Chuuya will wonder if the hybrid had genuinely thought he was about to be shot at that moment, but in the instant it happens he doesn't have the time to give it any thought, too focused on ensuring survival.
Honestly, he's barely even considered his own safety. He knows that yesterday, this scrappy little creature had nearly taken off several people's fingers, and entering the cage probably... isn't the best plan. For all he knows, the weakness could be feigned, and the second he opens this door the cat could easily make a break for it.
But something in Chuuya, some sort of gut instinct that runs as an undercurrent to conscious thought, wants to take the chance anyway.
He swings open the heavy metal door, the shattered padlock clanging to the ground, and steps inside.
The cat doesn't move as Chuuya enters. Either he's biding his time before bolting, or he really is that weak - Chuuya places his bets on the latter, and very carefully approaches.
“Come on, then,” Chuuya says, “Let's get you up.”
Ears flattened to his head, the cat lets out a low noise a little like a hoarse growl.
“Don't get pissed at me,” Chuuya retorts, “You need water, too, and it'd be fucking stupid if you choked to death right after you decided to live.”
Still, the cat hisses and spits at Chuuya, sharp teeth on display, as he pushes him upright into something approximating a sitting position against the back wall. He tries to move to bite Chuuya's hands, but he's not quick enough in his weakened state.
“I know,” Chuuya says, in a way he hopes is reassuring. He's been told before that he's sort of good with people, but he has no idea if that transfers with hybrids, and either way he's never felt like he's any good at... comfort, or being gentle. “You don't like being touched, I get it. But we gotta get you up so you can eat.”
Chuuya picks up the can. As soon as he does so, the cat hybrid stretches out his arms, reaching for the food, but after a short moment his hands fall back to his sides, his strength still depleted.
Despite how stressed he feels, Chuuya rolls his eyes. “Maybe you'd have some energy left if you hadn't been so desperate to fucking bite me,” he remarks, which earns him another fangs-bared hiss.
“Seriously,” Chuuya adds, “There's literally a whole proverb about hands that feed and biting them.” With his index and middle finger, he scoops up a small amount of the shredded crabmeat from the can, mindful still of the sharp edges. “Do you think you can play nice for a minute since there's food in it for you?”
The cat nods slowly, although his eyes are on the crab and not Chuuya.
Chuuya figures that's as much acquiescence as he's going to get, so, ever-so-gently, he raises his hand to that mouth full of pointed teeth and hopes it's not the worst idea he's ever had.
Those small, sharp teeth graze the pads of Chuuya's fingers, but not hard enough to draw blood. It's not clear if he's intentionally being gentle or just doesn't have the stamina to bite down hard, but either way Chuuya is glad of it. The soft bite is followed by the rough lathe of his tongue, chasing every scrap of the rich white meat.
Cat tongues are strange, Chuuya realises in sort of an abstract way as he picks up a little more crab and offers it up, wordlessly. He'd never thought about it before - in fact there's a lot of things he'd never thought about before the last twenty-four hours.
Before he's even finished licking the remainder of the crab from Chuuya's fingers, the cat is already reaching for the can again, like a child demanding seconds.
“Ah-ah,” Chuuya admonishes him, pushing his hands back down in a somewhat fruitless attempt at getting him to rest. “Don't eat too much too fast. Crab meat is rich, and you've not had food or water in almost three days, maybe more. Take it slow, or you'll make yourself sick.”
Another gold-eyed glare, ears twitching.
Chuuya is used to it by now and ignores him, pulling the plastic seal off of the bottle of water he'd left. “If you're going to have anything, have some water. Careful, though,” he adds as he helps him raise the bottle to his lips, “Little sips, remember. Slowly.”
It takes the better part of an hour, maybe even an hour and a half, before the can of crab is empty and the bottle of water mostly gone. Mentally, Chuuya is already breathing a sigh of relief, but he keeps his hand outstretched, letting the cat lick the remainder of the food from his fingertips.
“Good,” Chuuya murmurs, not entirely sure why he feels he has to say it, “That's good. You did it.”
“Mrr-rrr,” says the cat. That one visible gold eye has lost its wary steeled edge, dulled a little by the comfort of food and water. Chuuya thinks he might even look a little sleepy.
“How do you feel?” Chuuya asks. “Better?”
The hybrid nods, slowly, but with a sassy little swish of his tail, as if to say Don’t you dare say ‘I told you so.’
“So,” Chuuya says, “You got a name, kitty-cat?”
The glare returns, dripping poison in green-rimmed gold.
Chuuya sighs. “Fine. I’m Chuuya. Nakahara. And you are…?”
“Da…zai.” It still seems to be an effort for him to speak, despite having had food and plenty of water. Chuuya is starting to wonder if there’s something else that’s making it hard for him, or maybe he just doesn’t use human speech often enough.
“Alright, Dazai. I have a proposition for you.”
Another flick of the tail, this time less aggressive and more curious.
“I want you to join the Port Mafia.”
At that, Dazai hisses viciously, teeth on display, body tensing again.
“I get it,” Chuuya says, slowly. “Cats are independent creatures, right? Being a gang mule doesn’t suit you. That’s why I don’t want you doing grunt work. I want you at my level. Executive level.”
Dazai immediately stops hissing and closes his mouth, ears twitching.
“Yeah,” Chuuya says, “I thought you’d like that a bit better. We wouldn’t be able to get you in immediately, of course – there’s a few too many hoops to jump through just yet.” Chuuya isn’t even sure Dazai is capable of living on his own, right now, with his numerous injuries and tendency towards suicidality and self-neglect; let alone cutting straight in at the top of an internationally-connected underworld organisation. But – “That said, I think we can make a start straightaway. Get you a clean bill of health, your own place to stay…”
Every great thing starts somewhere, or so Chuuya thinks.
Dazai chews on one ragged fingernail, thinking about it. Chuuya notes the slits by his knuckles where his claws retract.
“…Why?”
“Obvious answers first: you’re smart as hell, and you can fight like hell. Why wouldn’t I want someone like that on my side?”
Dazai preens a little at the compliment, his crooked, bandaged tail straightening up.
“Secondly,” Chuuya continues, “My other option is to sedate you and ship you off to S.H.O., which I don’t really wanna do, because it involves paperwork and government bodies and all kinds of shit that’s a little too legal for my liking. I think you don’t really want that either, right? To have Special Ops people prod at you until they’ve determined you’re a dangerous breed and have you locked up for life?”
Dazai hisses again.
“Yeah,” Chuuya says. “I thought not. So…?”
Dazai puffs out his chest, twitches his scarred and battered ears, and makes a positive-sounding mrrrp noise of affirmation.
Chuuya grins. “Then let’s go.”