Chapter Text
Kunikida drifts towards consciousness slowly. He cracks open his eyes once he has the awareness to remember how, and immediately squeezes them shut again against the burning light. It feels like he is either staring directly into the sun or has been in darkness for days. Had he somehow forgotten to turn off the light before falling asleep? That isn’t like him.
He tries to move, to turn over or cover his eyes, and finds he can’t. Suddenly, he becomes aware of something tight around both of his arms. His hands have gone numb and he can’t feel his fingers. He knows this is concerning, but he can’t feel the panic he knows is there through the haze suffocating his brain.
Kunikida forces his eyes open, trying not to look directly at wherever the light is coming from. He squints. His eyes burn. His throat is dry.
He is in a hospital room, hooked up to a machine, and there are multiple IVs by his bed. A woman stands before him, facing the IV and looking at a clipboard. He hadn’t even noticed her so close until now. His brain is foggy and slow.
Kunikida clears his throat before trying to speak. “What—” The word comes out like a croak. Now that he speaks his throat feels like it has been stripped raw. He doesn’t finish his sentence, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The woman looks at him with wide eyes, drops the clipboard to the side table by his bed, and then hurries to the large metal door without a word. He is alone.
He looks down at himself, though the position on his back makes it difficult and his vision is blurry without his glasses. The moment he moves his head a slow dull pain fills the void where his brain should be, overflowing, pushing against his skull, and seeping out into his eye sockets. His neck feels deeply fatigued just from the weight of holding his head.
There is an IV in each arm at his elbow, and below that thick straps are holding his arms to the railing of the bed. Three-quarters down his forearms bandages start. Somewhere in his delirium, he thinks of Dazai. They cover his hands. No. That’s not right. They cover his wrists. Where—?
The door opens. Kunikida recognizes the man who strides in, boots clacking against the sterile floor, in full pristine Hunting Dog uniform, cape trailing after him. He creates a picture too striking for a hospital room. Kunikida doesn’t remember his name if he ever knew it, but he remembers the man’s words to him despite the brain fog. “ You’re relieved right now, aren’t you? …Your ideals are as lofty and large as a hot air balloon, but a hot air balloon inevitably runs out of fuel and returns to the ground. You’ve lived in fear of when that day would come. ”
Kunikida isn’t like Dazai or Ranpo; he can never stop thinking—agonizing, but he doesn’t think faster than time moves. He can act on well-honed instinct in a fight, but when it comes to conversation he can’t analyze and understand a situation, stay calm, and figure out the optimal response, certainly not through the clouds clogging his mind. So, backed into a corner, tied down, injured, staring down a man who was recently seconds away from having Yosano killed and the rest of them captured, instinctual panic cuts through the haze.
Kunikida yanks against the restraints, forgetting the pain throughout his body. “Release me! Where am I? Where are the others?” He is responsible for the other members of the agency. He is supposed to have traded his life to give them time, but he’s still here. Why is he still here?
The Hunting Dog reaches his bedside. His lips are curled in a clinically pleasant smile. Kunikida tries to sit up as best he can, he doesn’t want to feel this man towering over him while he can barely move.
The man places a hand on Kunikida’s chest and effortlessly pushes so his back returns to the thin mattress. His hand remains, a too-warm, too-heavy presence to remind Kunikida of the current difference in strength and position.
“I’d be happy to if you can calm yourself. You’re at the medical facility specifically to treat the Hunting Dogs and their prisoners. The terrorists you were with escaped on the helicopter for now, though we’ve already found the doctor and brought her into custody. Your President never even had the chance to run, and I arrested your partner myself before you revealed yourselves to be the Decay of Angels. He’s in prison by now I believe.”
Kunikida breathes in and out, more strained than it should be. This is bad, but everyone is alive at the very least, it’s not too late to figure this out. There has been no mention of Ranpo; if he’s unencumbered then he’ll find a way to fix this, Kunikida has to believe that.
Escape from the Hunting Dogs is unrealistic at this point, the most important thing for now is to remain calm and learn what he can about what’s going on and his situation. Ideally, he can try to explain to them about the book, about how reality is being altered. If he can get the Hunting Dogs to even consider other culprits, alternative narratives to the one that is laid out so nicely in front of them, his continued survival would have a purpose.
“Well?” The Hunting Dog asks after a moment. “Do you intend to control yourself?”
Kunikida immediately bristles despite his determined tranquility. He’s never reacted well to condescension, and in this situation, it only chafes more, but he grits out a “fine”, and watches the man’s smile widen.
“Oh, but there’s something I should help you understand first. It seems the painkillers are making it hard to realize on your own.” The man’s hand has yet to leave his chest. He wishes he’d shut up and remove the damn straps already. “You may have used Tetchou as a shield when you jumped, but he didn’t take all the damage. Not even our doctors could save you from any lasting injury.” He finally removes his hand and moves down to undo the restraints at Kunikida’s forearms. Kunikida forces himself to remain still until he’s free, despite his discomfort. “So, you survived, but we weren’t able to save either of your hands.”
The restraints fall away, and Kunikida sits up. It’s the same sight as before, that his foggy brain had been unable to make sense of. His hands are gone . Whatever remains is wrapped in bandages. The drugs he’s on are good, he can’t feel the pain beyond the aches in his whole body, or maybe he can’t localize the pain to where his hands should be.
Kunikida feels his heart beating fast through his entire body. Yosano will fix him like she always does. This isn’t insurmountable. Nothing has happened that can’t be fixed. He can be fixed. But Kunikida is a realist as much as an idealist, and he knows with both him and Yosano captured he likely won’t be seeing her for a while.
Kunikida realizes he’s been silent for too long, just staring. The damn Hunting Dog is hovering at his shoulder, closer than he needs to be. Kunikida needs to say something or do something to show this is fine, to not give this man any satisfaction. He had been prepared to die, it’s not like this is worse. He sits up properly and lets his arms fall so his wrists rest in his lap. He doesn’t know what to say, he’s unsure if he’ll be able to say anything without giving away his panic. From the man’s smile, it is all too clear to him already.
The Hunting Dog fills the silence when Kunikida settles into his firm posture, still unspeaking. His quiet laugh is perfectly calm, measured, and joyless—it meets the criteria for a laugh but doesn’t feel like one at all. “It’s funny, you acting as some stoic statue while I can hear all the pain and panic you deserve just beneath the surface.”
This man thinks he is a high-profile terrorist, and clearly, he has no scruples about the use of cruelty or force on such a person, especially if he thinks they might have information. Somewhere in his addled mind, the possibility of torture rises. He ignores it.
The Hunting Dog continues, “There’s no need to hide your fear, I can hear it all perfectly well anyway. I for one was quite impressed with your little display back there, who knew terrorists had such loyalty?” The pseudo-praise leaves a bad taste in Kunikida’s mouth. “I don’t know that I’ve officially introduced myself. I’m Saigiku Jouno. I know who you are, of course.”
Kunikida remembers from the confrontation before the helicopter, “You said you did research on me.”
“I did. I often do on the criminals we hunt. Knowing one’s opponent is useful, I’m sure you understand. But even beyond combat and strategy, understanding a person is part of what enables me to take them apart.”
“What?”
“What I found on you was certainly interesting, and you lived up to that expectation. The sound of your pain is really something. There is a strain to it, a desperation for something less simple than an end to external pressures. You are most frantic when you have hope, and most relieved when you are cornered. When you jumped from the helicopter, did you intend to die? It seems you were quite eager to release yourself from the pressure of those relying on you.” He’s wrong. Kunikida hears everything as if through a radio, with underlying static and a slight delay from the drugs. He needs this asshole to stop talking. “Whether your ideals die with your allies or with you they will die.”
Kunikida is hit by the last sentence. His brain splutters like a stalling engine and he takes a moment too long to respond.
Jouno tips his head to the side. He listens. He smiles.
“You’re wrong. If I die to save the Agency then my ideals will forever be intact.”
“Is that what you want, then? To die?”
“That’s not what I said!” Kunikida snaps. “What I want is to live by my ideals, including protecting the Agency.”
Jouno’s smile widens, and Kunikida regrets letting himself be pulled into this conversation. With the realization comes the reminder of how heavy and tired he feels.
“How heartwarming.” Jouno finally takes his full attention off of Kunikida and uses the pitcher on the side table to fill a cup with cool water. He places a straw in the cup and leaves it at the edge of the table, Kunikida thinks he can get to it if he leans and stretches his neck out a bit. “I imagine you’re thirsty, you’ve spent a while unconscious. Would you like me to hold the cup for you?”
Kunikida shakes his head no. He doesn’t want this man’s help, and he doesn’t appreciate the pointed reminder that something as simple as holding a cup is not possible for him at the moment. The water would soothe his burning throat, but he won’t embarrass himself by fumbling with the straw while the Hunting Dog is here.
“Then I’ll leave you to rest. The nurse will be back in a few minutes, she’ll refresh your IVs and lower your dose of the painkillers sometime tonight, ask her if you need anything. I suggest you behave. Restricting your movement more would be a pain for everyone. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
He drinks the water after Jouno leaves. When the nurse returns she helps him to the bathroom, cuffs him back to the bed by the ankle, fiddles with his IV, and turns off the overhead light. She doesn’t say much and neither does he. As he is enclosed in the warmth of sleep and whatever drugs they were pumping him with he finally wonders what the point of that visit was, and why Jouno would bother returning tomorrow.
When he wakes up next the morning sun is shining through the window and his mind feels much sharper at the expense of his body. Everything hurts, and the unhealed wounds beneath what he suspects are freshly changed bandages burn with sharp strikes of pain that shoot up from the site of the injury. He struggles upright on the bed doing his best not to move his arms too much or put pressure on the wounds, and realizes his vision is blurry. His glasses sit folded on the table next to the bed, along with a pitcher of water and an empty cup he also can’t use. He could try to maneuver the glasses onto his face with his wrists, though it would likely be quite painful at this point. He isn’t sure if that would be more or less dignified than asking a nurse to do it when they come in.
He quickly decides to try it. Any less reliance on his captors he could have the better, and no one was here to see him if he failed. It takes a couple of minutes, leaving his injuries stinging more than they had been, involving the use of his wrists, mouth, and knees, and surely looks ridiculous if anyone had been watching, but he does it.
The triumph doesn’t last long when he realizes he has nothing to occupy his time until someone returns. He can’t write in his notebook, he can’t do anything productive, he can’t even get up and pace. He is forced to patiently wait for whenever his captors decide to check on him or bother him. He can’t do anything but think, and if he does that he will spiral. He has to remind himself that he isn’t safe right now, he is with people trying to destroy the Agency, regardless of their reasoning. He doesn’t have the luxury to break down, but it is hard to remain vigilant and strong when he can do nothing but think of everything that brought him here, and what may be happening to his colleagues right now while he can’t do anything to help or support them. He can’t think of anything but how he has failed. He wants to cry. Instead, he occupies his brain with solving random equations with increased difficulty and recreating lists from his notebook in his head. Time passes slowly.
Eventually, a new nurse comes in and checks on him. He pours him water, checks his bandages, briefly asks how he feels, etc. Kunikida is grateful for the distraction. He tries to talk to the nurse a bit, not even asking anything relevant, just to have some kind of interaction, but he answers with either the bare minimum or says nothing at all. The whole thing leaves Kunikida even more frustrated, but at least he turns the TV in front of the bed on to the news before he leaves. Kunikida will take what he can get for distraction.
Unfortunately, the distraction quickly turns into the opposite. Not long after the nurse leaves the news begins to cover several bombings caused by coins dispersed by the Decay of Angels.
Jouno returns as the news plays, perfectly timed to taunt him. He brings a pear with him, just to eat it in front of Kunikida, to remind him that he hasn’t eaten since he got here. As a result of the surgery and the drugs, he hasn’t had any appetite at all, but he knows that hunger pains will set in soon if he is given nothing. Jouno taunts him with false praise, all leading up to a ridiculous proposition. He asks Kunikida to join the Hunting Dogs, to betray the Agency.
Kunikida scoffs at the notion, shoots it down the moment he understands, gives himself no time to consider such a thing, and tells himself he would never. He would never . It doesn’t matter that they could fix his hands. Everything in him revolts against the idea of being bound, under penalty of death, to serve anyone or anything. The whole idea of it is sickening. Even if it weren’t betraying the Agency, just agreeing to something like this would be turning his back on his ideals.
The Hunting Dog leaves him with the news that Yosano’s execution has been scheduled for tomorrow, and the physical shreds of his ideals split in two. The words linger, “ Isn’t it about time ?”
Kunikida screams. He screams like he wants to feel his throat flayed and bloody; like he will never speak again. But there is no thought behind the action, no purposeful release of emotion and frustration. There is nothing but rot clogging his throat, rising up and forcing him to expel everything—his voice, his breath, all that he is—and the tears on his face, so many there are no individual tear tracks, just moisture covering his face down to his neck.
When there is no air left in his body, no sound to expel, Kunikida wants to dig his fingers into something, to clench them into a fist, and let his nails cut into the skin of his palm just a bit. He wants to grab at his own hair, either to hold his skull together or rip it apart. He can’t do any of that. He wants to rip those fucking bandages off of himself—with his teeth if he has to—and see the wounds with his own eyes, but he doesn’t. He frantically kicks the remains of his notebook off the bed with enough force to send them slamming into the wall.
His chest is heaving. He doesn’t know if he is sobbing or desperately drawing in breath after expelling it all so forcefully. With no other options for destruction he nearly screams again, to see if he can lose his voice, but he remembers that Jouno will hear it. He’s made it clear that he’s enjoying this somehow, the sound of Kunikida’s hopelessness or whatever. He thinks this is justice. Kunikida won’t give him any more than he has.
There is nothing he can do. He can’t save Yosano, one of his dearest friends, and—a selfish voice he ardently ignores whispers to him—the only person who could heal him. Still, he has hope. Ranpo is somewhere out there and he would never let that happen, he would never let her die. But even so, Kunikida is not so optimistic he can ignore the possibility. Ranpo is being hunted down, and Yosano must be extremely heavily guarded. Even Ranpo has limits, and if this is one, Yosano will die.
Useless to help or do anything at all and exhausted by the strength of his devastation, Kunikida does something he very rarely does. He lays down, turns his back on the remains of his notebook, and drifts off to sleep in the middle of the day.