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“Detectives aren’t heroes,” everyone keeps saying.
What does that make him, then?
What is he supposed to feel when Kurumi proudly declares him as her hero? Is he supposed to feel happy? Proud of himself? Relieved that she’s safe? Is he supposed to ignore the fact that three young, tormented lives were lost in the name of his so-called heroism? That less people would have died if he had let someone better handle it? Hell, even letting the Peacekeepers continue to corrupt the truth would have resulted in less death than him sticking his nose in the case. Is he supposed to ignore these undeniable facts and accept her assertion anyways? Or is he supposed to discard it despite the fact that he did save her , which he supposes could make him her hero? Hers, and the Colans’, and no one else’s. And to the church, the academy, and the general population of Kanai Ward, he’s nothing more than a filthy murderer.
Regardless of his status, he allows himself to reap the rewards of his “heroics”. He listens intently as Kurumi tells him everything she knows about Kanai Ward’s Ultimate Secret. About their confidential homunculus research. About their collaboration with the Unified Government. About the disappearance of her grandfather. He drinks in every word as if he hadn’t seen water in days, hardly daring to even move lest he divert any ounce of attention from the truth. If detectives are supposed to be vessels of truth and nothing else, then he fits the bill perfectly in this moment, nodding with determination and narrowing his eyes with pure intrigue. Kurumi’s information has left him itching for more.
Still, he’s no detective. Anyone worthy of the title would have found their way to the truth without dooming three teenagers to their demises. So, he’s no detective, and he’s no hero. He’s just Yuma, reeling from information overload and the weight of his abilities, running as fast as his short legs will take him to relay the information to the others, running faster when he realizes how upset the chief must be with his absence. For the time being, with what he and he alone now carries, “just Yuma” has to be enough.
~
Yakou is already waiting for him by the time he returns to the agency. He grabs Yuma by the wrist and yanks him inside. His grasp is firm, his nails digging lightly into skin, but there’s still a tenderness to it. The others perk up as the pair descend the staircase, from his miraculous return or from the harsh sound of Yakou slamming the door behind them, Yuma cannot deduce. Try as he may, the thought of even attempting to deduce anything after what he’d just been through makes him nauseous. So, he wipes his turmoil away with the excess water from his clothes, and focuses only on relaying Kurumi’s information to the detectives.
First, he is praised. Despite his clear inferiority, as Halara points out, he’s somehow been the first and only agency member to uncover any information. He takes in their impressed gazes, their prideful smiles, and wonders if he deserves any of it after what he did to the theatre club girls. Should he be allowed to feel proud of himself, too? To accept the warm and tingly feeling the praise gives him? What does it matter what he should or shouldn’t be feeling if he feels it anyways? Is he a horrible person for that?
He doesn’t have much time to wonder, because next comes the yelling he was originally prepared for.
“You’re late getting back, fine. You don’t do the job you were originally sent to do, okay. But how could you have gotten yourself caught up in another murder ?!” Yakou fumbles to light a cigarette as he shouts, though it does little to quell his trembling.
“I-I’m really sorry…” Yuma lowers his head. Compared to the volume of Yakou’s voice, his is barely audible.
“We were already on thin ice with the Peacekeepers! And then you picked another fight with them! That’s the biggest problem here!”
“We didn’t start the fight! We were just doing the right thing! A-and we got to expose the truth in the end…”
“He’s right on that one,” Desuhiko adds with a wide grin. “Man, that look on Martina’s face was awesome.”
“ Martina?! As in, Vice Director Martina?” Yakou’s hands fly to his hair. He grips the fuzzy strands until his knuckles turn white. “Oh my God, we are so screwed. Do you have any idea how much trouble you two have caused for us?! We have to-”
Mid-sentence, he freezes on the spot. His eyes become wide and cold. His cigarette teeters out of his half-open mouth, and Yuma rushes to pick it up before it sets the carpet on fire. “Chief…?” He says quietly as he gingerly puts it out.
“Leave,” Yakou finishes. His voice has transformed into something nearly unrecognizable, gravelly and desperate and full of something Yuma thought he’d never hear from the man: hatred.
“Wh-what?”
“All of you, leave. Now. Go.”
One by one, the detectives adopt the same look of confusion as Yuma. Desuhiko steps in front of the rookie with his hands up. “Hey, whoa, Chief, I’m sure we can talk this out. There’s no need to-”
“I SAID LEAVE! THERE’S NO TIME TO DISCUSS, JUST GO!”
The two stumble back. Yuma’s lower lip begins to quiver. The look of mania in Yakou’s eyes pierces him straight through the heart, shattering the sense of security his presence had once offered, the only person he felt truly safe around. The loss is heavy enough to lock his feet in place, as if any movement would make the whole world collapse around him.
“Even me?” Vivia finally joins the conversation with a sigh. “That’s hardly fair… why should I have to go to the trouble of moving?”
“Vivia, you-!" Yakou's words catch beneath a small cry of anguish. He tosses the short coffee table to the side out of sheer rage and runs to pull Vivia out of the fireplace. “None of you are fucking listening! GET OUT! I won’t say it again!”
“Chief, I’m so sorry,” Yuma stammers, his voice breaking. “Please, calm down, don’t get upset at the others. I really didn’t mean to-”
“Stop.” Halara’s cold and commanding voice snaps everyone’s attention to them. They stand from their chair with urgency. “Everyone, we should just listen to the chief and go. I don’t think this is about you, Yuma, I think-”
The rest of their sentence is swallowed up by the deafening sound of shattering metal. The entire submarine jolts with enough force to knock Yuma off his feet. Through the blurring effects of the shaking and his desperate attempt to stand, he can barely see pieces of the large overhead pipes crashing to the floor as murky water spills out of them. It rises to his ankles. His knees.
It’s water from the river. The submarine is flooding. The submarine is sinking.
The chief knew they would do this. He wasn’t kicking him out. He was trying to protect him. Protect everyone.
A detective would have figured that out. A hero would have helped him get everyone to safety.
“YUMA! WHAT ARE YOU JUST STANDING AROUND FOR?! MOVE!” This time, it’s Desuhiko’s shouting that breaks him out of his distress. He watches him run to do the same to Fubuki, who almost seems jovial in her shock. Their voices, too, get drowned out by the new addition of blaring alarms to the cacophony. He watches them scramble to the stairs, but he loses sight of them quickly in his frantic search for an escape. He has to survive. Nothing else matters to him then.
His legs have gone numb from the sudden assault of cold water, but he strains to move them anyways. He barely makes it to the bookshelf before the current knocks him off balance. He throws his arms out with a terrified cry and sinks his nails into the soft wood. He yanks against the shelf, wildly flailing his legs, but the pull of the water is stronger than his feeble weight. He tries again as the water crashes against his chest. Again. It reaches his neck. Again. It reaches his chin.
He hears Yakou screaming his name, over and over, his desperation and agony projecting his voice over the groaning of the submarine. He tries to call back to him, but the water splashes up and invades his lungs, sending him into a fit of coughs that only intensifies the chief’s outburst.
He hears the world go silent as the water rushes through his ears.
He sees the world go dark as it overtakes his eyes.
He feels his fingers slip away from the bookshelf as he is pushed, farther, farther, farther— shouldn’t he have hit a wall by now?
He feels a sickening pressure in his lungs, growing by the second, begging for air, begging for relief.
He sees the scratchy white silhouette of a person emerge from the abyss. It looms over him, as most people do. He can’t make out anything else.
He hears the figure tell him about Number One, about the secret book vault beneath headquarters. Its voice is deep and clear and… familiar? He can’t identify it.
He hears himself respond, as if he can breathe enough to speak. It’s not his voice. But he knows it’s him. How can that be?
He sees something clearly, through the chalky shapes, standing out against the endless hallway of spinning black tiles and overhead lights. A book. The one that Shinigami has. He wants it. He wants it so much that he hardly stops to question why. His desire overtakes all his senses, the figures dissipate, the walls disappear–
He feels the rush of water as an invisible force hoists him upwards. He’s still soaking wet. He still can’t breathe. Or see, or hear, or feel, besides the paralyzing cold that overtakes his body once he remembers he’s drowning. His heart races faster, his eyes roll back, his muscles lock up.
He feels nothing.
~
His eyes greet a sea of cushions as they flutter open. They sag beneath his weight, enveloping his form like a gentle hug. He’s never felt something so soft and cozy and inviting. Though, he supposes, all he can ever remember sleeping on is the couch in the submarine.
The submarine. The flood. The others. Where are the others?!
He shoots upwards with a yell. His muscles shudder in protest, reminding him of the comfort of the bed and the exertion from his near-death experience, but his mind is racing too much to care. Whatever happened to them is his fault. He has to find them, he has to make sure they’re okay, no matter what it takes. He’ll do anything.
“Sounds like someone’s finally awake!” A high, muffled voice travels through the doorway. Again, it sounds familiar, but again, he can’t identify it. “Are you always that noisy about it? Who knew visitors could have such fun little quirks!”
“Who are you?!” He calls back, his voice scratchy and raw.
“Oh, well, questions like those are hardly suited for bath time. I’ll be right with you, ‘kay?”
Yuma leaps off the bed and twists the doorknob. Something heavy is keeping it in place from the other side. He throws himself at the door, only succeeding in adding another layer of dull pain to his aching muscles. “Let me out!” He shouts as loud as his waning voice will let him. “Please let me out!”
“Awww, but I went through such trouble to be a good host… stay a while, I insist! I don’t get to do this very often, you know!”
Who does this kidnapper think they are?!
Shinigami! He whirls around to face his spectral partner, who has yet to leave the bed. Help me out here! Did you see anything when this person took me?
“Beats me,” she responds with an uncharacteristically feeble shrug. “Now that our pact is fully formed… when you lose consciousness, my vision also goes dark. And go dark it did! Hell, even as a death god, I thought I was gonna die!”
Yuma sucks in a breath to ignore her laughter behind him, as he’s learned to. “I’m kicking the door in,” he says, his voice trembling with the rest of his body.
This is enough to stop Shinigami mid-cackle. “Wait, what?”
Before she can make any other remark, he’s inches away from the door. As he raises his foot, he hears something clatter to the ground, and then the doorknob clicks. “Wait!” He shouts as he realizes what’s about to happen, but it’s too late for him to do anything about it. A jolt of anticipation surges through him as his foot slams into the already-open door, sending it hurtling backwards. The voice from before cries out as the door collides with something hollow, then comes to an abrupt standstill, revealing a man in a full purple suit with dusty brown hair flying everywhere. He turns around slowly, his hand pressing a white mask against his face, which now sports a crack running down the forehead and into the singular eye painted on the centre. The design unnerves Yuma, but not quite as much as the glare he can feel boring into his eyes, even from behind the grinning mask.
“I-I-I’m so sorry!” Yuma stammers, curling his arms into his chest.
“Don’t be sorry for me ,” the man replies, almost too nonchalantly. “Do you have any idea why I wear this mask? It’s because of the demonic blood that runs through my family’s veins. It causes anyone who looks at my face to lose all their sanity. You wouldn’t even be able to hold a normal conversation if you’d knocked it off! Apparently, it dates back hundred and hundreds and hundreds of years, back when this place was just-”
“Okay, I think I got it, thanks! So, uh, who are you?”
“Oh?” The man finishes adjusting his mask behind his head and spreads his arms open. “If you want to know who I am, does that mean you wish to be friends with me?”
“With all due respect, I want to know who kidnapped me.”
“Oh… is that all I am to you? I wanted to be your friend…” The man hangs his head. “Is it because I haven’t introduced myself yet? I’m sorry, it’s been so long since I’ve built personal relationships that I don’t remember the procedure. I’m Makoto Kagutsuchi. It’s nice to meet you.”
Makoto Kagutsuchi.
The name tugs at Yuma’s brain, as if to request recognition. He can’t help but stare into the void-like hole that is the mask’s eye, and it stares back, unflinching and expectant. They stay like this for an uncomfortably long time, waiting for something that won’t happen. Yuma can feel it in Makoto, too, as he backs away from the door and sits himself daintily on the bright red couch in the middle of the expansive living room.
“This guy is bad news, Master,” Shinigami says. “Everything about him is suspicious.”
Yeah, I know , Yuma replies. He swallows the lump in his throat and gives him an awkward wave. “H-hi. I’m Yuma.”
“Hmm, Yuma…” As Makoto’s voice trails off, they swiftly return to the trance they were in before. Makoto seems to be inviting Yuma to know who he is, and he tries , but like most times he’s dug through his memory pool, it quickly drops off into a black abyss. Could he have known Makoto before he lost his memories? Did Makoto think it would be perfectly acceptable to take him here because of that? Why can’t he remember ? Why can’t he do anything right ?
He shakes his head sharply, snapping himself out of his impending spiral. “E-excuse me, Makoto… where are we right now?”
“Hmm?” Makoto gives his own head a small shake before continuing. “This is my home. Isn’t it wonderful? It’s the highest point in town. The very top floor of Kanai Tower!”
“Wait, the top?!” Yuma backs away. Just who the hell is Makoto Kagutsuchi? Someone important at Amaterasu, clearly. He’s stuck here with an Amaterasu kingpin. He’s so screwed. He may as well have just drowned.
“You don’t have to be scared. We’re friends, aren’t we?” Makoto reassures him, but the stagnant, inhuman expression on his mask does little to prove his point.
“Just tell me how I got here. Please.”
“I brought you here, silly!” He crosses one leg over the other. “I thought you were just playing by the river, but you weren’t moving… one of my men just happened by you on the riverside. I wouldn't have been able to sleep at night if I had just let you die.”
Die. The word shakes him to his core. I could have died. The others were in the river. They could have died.
“You’re here from the lowest part of town to the highest,” Makoto continues. “How does it feel to have travelled between heaven and hell?”
“How much of the river did you search? Was there anyone else?!”
“Well, I asked you a question first. It’s not nice to ignore people, is it?”
“Tell me if there was anyone else at the river.” Yuma’s voice drops to a low, threatening growl he’s never heard from himself before. Shinigami shoots him an impressed glance. Despite this, though, he’s still unable to keep the desperation out of his tone.
Makoto simply shakes his head and drops his voice to match. “We patrolled the whole thing. There was no one else.”
The world goes silent as the words leave his mouth, as if something has shattered Yuma’s eardrums. The sensation travels to his brain, and he feels it fall to pieces, along with the whole world he knew. The safety of a home, the comfort of people who cared for him, the foundation of any sort of life he had built for himself, they were all destroyed by those ten words. His quivering knees finally give up on him, and he crumples to the ground without a word. He feels as if he should cry, or scream, or rush out the door to look for them with an invigorated declaration that they’re still out there somewhere, but he can’t bring himself to do any of those things. He just lays as he is, his hollow stare aimed at the floor, or at Makoto, whose smiling disguise conceals the man’s true emotions.
There’s a harsh knock at the door. The sound startles him, but he doesn’t move a muscle. A single tear squeezes its way out of his eye. Nothing else happens, no matter how much he wills the presence of the cozy submarine and the light bickering of his colleagues and even the smell of nicotine permanently lingering in the chief’s clothes. It’s all gone.
“My, my, another visitor?” Makoto stands and dusts off his legs. “You might want to hide for now, Yuma.”
Still, he doesn’t move. How can he, when the weight of his actions alone feels suffocating on his chest? He killed them. It was his brashness and his incompetence that put them in that situation. He killed them, just like he killed Zilch and the churchgoers and those three young girls. He’s not a detective or a hero or anything worth praising at all. If he was, he would have saved them. Gotten them out of trouble without anyone having to die. He wouldn’t make mistakes that put his loved ones in constant danger. He would have passed his training with the WDO before he lost his memories, or he wouldn’t have lost them in the first place. He would have been better, smarter, stronger, anything other than what he is. He’s just Yuma, a pathetic nobody shaking like a leaf on the ground. The murderer that sent everything he loved to the bottom of the river.
Makoto ushers him into the room where he woke up. The room that he, and only he, survived in. Again . Was this the fate he had been assigned? To watch everyone around him lose their lives too early because he isn’t good enough? What will it take to stop the horrible cycle? He’d do anything, he thinks, anything .
He hears the snarky tone of Yomi’s voice travel through the door. His blood boils at the sound. He knows he’s the one who gave the order to attack the submarine. He may have killed them, but he wants to rush out there and force Yomi to hold himself accountable, too. He wants to so badly that he feels his vision tunnel onto the door, so he doesn’t move. Nothing good has ever come of doing what he wants to do. If they are out there, he’s sure they wouldn’t appreciate him getting dragged to his death by Yomi Hellsmile.
They have to be out there, he thinks. They’re too good, too smart, too strong to die. If he could survive this, they could, too. He’ll find them, he will. He’ll rebuild the Nocturnal Detective Agency with them.
He doesn’t move.
He doesn’t move even after he hears the front door slam shut behind Yomi. He waits for Makoto to drag him back out of the room and start on some monologue about Yomi’s corruption, and how the Peacekeepers came to be, and how he loves Kanai Ward more than anyone else, and how he believes detectives are the only ones who can save it. He listens to Shinigami cut in with her growing distrust of the man, and he agrees. He doesn’t like his creepy mask or his cryptic background or the way he feels like he should know who this is. And, of course, he feels the need to specify that he isn’t a detective, and he probably isn’t even worthy of being called a trainee. But still, Makoto holds his hand out to him, asking to work together and save the city. He can only stare blankly at it as he remembers Yakou asking the same of him. He can only think how he doesn’t want to let him down, that if he and the others really are alive, that this could be his only chance to find them. He wants to say yes, but he thinks that means he shouldn’t. What good would he be able to do anyways? He’s just Yuma.
But still… with what he and he alone now carries, “just Yuma” has to be enough.
"Just Yuma" shakes his hand.