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The first clip opens on a shadow. The lighting is too dim to make anything out but a figure of a human, though no features can be defined in the static.
The film has no sound. If watched in a silent room, the background humming of a radiator, or the whirring fan of a laptop, may be audible, but starkly, no sound comes from the footage itself.
The man steps behind the camera. The footage has been edited to show several clips of adjustment. With every clip, the quality of the footage shifts—sometimes for the worse, but with a general trend of becoming clearer. The static clears, the lighting brightens, until finally features of the room become visible.
The room is sparsely furnished. An austere desk pairs with a wooden chair with light padding on the seat. A table lamp with a glass lampshade provides soft lighting to the background. The lampshade of the table lamp has a stained-glass pattern, which upon further observation depicts flowers in a cartoonish style. In the black-and-white footage, the color of the flowers is not clear. There is no bed or couch, clues that it is filmed in an office, though the desk contains only a small scattering of papers that amount to little more than a week’s worth of mail. The walls are decorated with wallpaper with doves faintly painted in wispy brushstrokes on the dark background—no pictures or paintings or note boards are hung on the wall. A window is to the right of the desk, but no light is shining through at the moment.
When the video footage cuts again, the man is sitting with the chair turned 90 degrees so his side leans against the desk. On the corner of the desk is an old-timey microphone, like those used on the radio during the 30s, plugged into the same outlet as the lamp, with a rubber cable stiff from staying inside of a box for too long. The microphone gives the footage sound, and echos of the film reel spinning just behind the lens hum gently.
The man is young, in the teenage years between growth spurts. Little is lost from the limitations of the black-and-white footage in the bright white of his shirt and inky black of his coat—the matte black of his hair and fluffy white of his bangs. Even in the sparse room, he feels out of place among the brightly-colored lampshade and the patterned wallpaper, though one would struggle to think of a place where he would fit in. He slouches in the chair, and his hand rests on his temple, massaging it through a migraine, perhaps, or feeling inexplicably self-conscious about being on camera.
He claps his hands by the microphone, and sits up in the seat with his back hunched in on himself. His hands fold in his lap, and he rings his hands together.
“The new job delivered my first paycheck,” he starts, saying paycheck the way a child says curse words when they are just starting out, “about a month ago. I bought everything I could think to, things I’ve never had before. I still had about half of it left. When another came two weeks later, I realized this is how life is for us now.”
Who us refers to is not clear, but the man did not seem interested in clarifying. Had it not been shown that he meticulously set up the equipment himself, it would not have been clear that he was speaking to an audience at all.
“I was struck by a whim yesterday to go to an antique store. The only things I used to own were things others had thrown out, so the idea of a whole shop of things the world had left behind...it intrigued me enough to pull me away from work for an afternoon. Someone had sold this,” he indicated to the microphone, “which I walked past without thought. Elsewhere was the camera and a few spools of film. That gave me the idea for,” he trails off and taps the desk, searching for a word to describe what he is feeling, “this.”
He stares into space, and spins around to face the window. Up until this point his speech had a scripted cadence to it, like that of a news reporter.
He faces the microphone and opens his mouth, and then suddenly stands up, shaking his head while walking behind the camera.
A cut. The next clip starts in the same room, with a similar angle, though slightly shifted to the right. The window has no light coming in through it, and the lamp is doing the heavy lifting of casting light throughout the entire room. The man sits in his chair, where exhaustion has taken the place of shame. The lamp illuminates his face with colors not visible on camera, and casts a long shadow across the floor of the room.
“This is going to be a,” he chokes around the word, “diary. Of some kind. I’ll probably,” he scoffs, “burn the things I record. Most definitely, I will shred it. The question of if I should digitize it before...I do not know.”
He takes a deep breath, and nods to himself. For the first time, he looks down the lens as he speaks, resting his elbow on the table so he can speak into the microphone as he does. “My name is Akutagawa Ryuunosuke. I lived in the slums of Yokohama until two months ago with my sister, until—” another deep breath, “Until we were taken in by the Port Mafia.”
The next clip focuses on a mirror. The camera points to itself and to Ryuunosuke, propping it up over his shoulder—though if the awkward manner he balances it, arm trembling with effort, is any indication, he isn’t holding it properly. The frame shakes from the improper hold, though not to a disruptive degree.
The camera is ancient. It is in good condition, without any scratches, but from its age alone most would regard it as defunct. The lens is a big black square with a small neck attaching it to its body, with two reels sticking out of the top.
A voiceover starts, filmed at a later time.
"The microphone is a crystal microphone, once used for radio hosts. The sound quality is surprising for its age. The camera is a film camera, much different to anything someone would have for in-home use of the time. It is not of the first of its kind, but it did come during a period of revolution in film, and was quickly replaced by the box camera. It predates color film by a few years, and the footage it produces has to be processed in special centers. That's all the research I've done so far. Most of the time I do tests to learn how to work it properly."
“When can I see it?”
A young girl’s voice, close in age to Ryuunosuke, asks, after he finishes.
The clip cuts back to the office, where Ryuunosuke stands in his office. The desk has a new addition—a laptop of a newer model, that sticks out on film. He looks behind and to the left of the camera, where the young girl is presumably examining the mechanics while listening to Ryuunosuke’s explanation.
“The footage?”
“Mhm!”
He shrugs awkwardly. “It has to be processed, and I still need to figure out how to digitize it. I suppose I could get a projector, but I don’t know where I would keep all of the old reels.”
“What are you gonna film?”
He puts his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “I’m still working that out.”
“It’s bulky,” she notes, and walks around to the front of it. The camera is set for Ryuunosuke’s height, so her body from the neck down is cut from the frame, with Ryuunosuke hovering in the center of the room behind her. Her hair and eyes are the same shade as Ryuunosuke’s, and likewise they share a familiarity with being in the same space with each other, though a tension in being in this space. “You should get a smaller one. Then we can go to the park and feed the birds while filming it.”
He smiles to himself. “I can do that. The box camera is more practical.”
She pokes at the film reel, and a few frames skip as it struggles to keep up with the sudden aggression. Ryuunosuke reaches out, but drops his hand into a fist as he realizes she hasn’t broken it.
“There’s two of them,” she says.
“One stores the film after it’s been used.”
“Hmm,” she says, and raises her hand behind the camera. The film skips and the cut is harsh.
The next clip has the sunrise coming in through the window. The lamp is turned off, and the natural light is too bright for how the camera is configured.
As for Ryuunosuke, he is sat at his desk with his back turned to the camera, slouched over the microphone.
“Gin didn’t break anything. She—” he coughs, “—touched some of the film, and it spun off the reel. It’s all fixed now.”
There’s a moment of quiet. A long moment.
Ryuunosuke is pacing back and forth, never straying from the edges of the frame, soldier-like with his hands behind his back. The light from the window has shifted slightly with the passage of time.
He stops, shakes his head, and continues pacing. Then he stops again.
“I yelled at Gin.”
He shakes his head again, viciously, with full swings as far as his neck would stretch either way. Continues pacing. Stops.
“I don’t know why,” he says. Scoffs. “I know why, I just—”
He looks between the microphone and the camera, and slinks into his chair. His face falls into his hand, which quickly folds into his other hand and is placed on the table. Awkwardly, in an untraceable way.
“This,” he gestures between himself and the camera, “falls outside of work. Outside of his jurisdiction.”
His is given zero significance in his speech, nor does Ryuunosuke explain who he is.
“I can be as good or bad at it as I please. It is meaningless. Of no consequence.”
He convinces himself of the veracity of the statement before continuing. It takes a moment. The microphone picks up a few deep, ragged breaths. His shoulders relax a bit.
“I expect I will change very much in the coming years. To become stronger. But it is only weakness that made me lash out at Gin. I won’t do it again.”
It is more than a promise. It is a contract.
Still in the office. Ryuunosuke is holding a new camera up to his old one. This one appears more modern, something practical and not just for movie sets. It was essentially a box with a crank on the side and a long lens.
“New camera. I also picked up some birdseed.”
He does not smile, but his eyes have clarity as they stare down the lens.
There’s a fade to the outdoors. The quality is slightly better. The camera is vintage, but modern enough that it could be in color. The black-and-white is a deliberate choice by Ryuunosuke.
It’s the mid-afternoon. The leaves are bright. The microphone sounds drowned, and the beeping cars and bustling pedestrians fill out the sound of the film. The camera is pointing forward at the pavement at what could generously be called a Dutch angle.
The camera shakes. “It’s my camera. Unhand it,” Ryuunosuke says. His voice sounds deeper, fuller.
The camera jostles again. “This was your idea,” Gin complains. Her voice, with a pitch much higher than Ryuunosuke’s, also sounds deeper, making the likely culprit something to do with the microphone.
The camera shifts, and steadies in the grasp of Gin, who immediately points it at Ryuunosuke.
“A compromise. We can set it on the ground at an angle where both us and the birds are visible.”
Ryuunosuke sneers, but he has a sparkle in his eyes that isn’t present when he is alone.
“Deal?”
Cut to Ryuunosuke and Gin on a park bench. Ryuunosuke is without his oversized coat, dressed in a plain black button up. Gin is dressed in a black dress—with some embellishments and ruffles, though mostly plain—that goes down to her ankles. Between them is a sack of birdseed, much too large for the task at hand.
Gin reaches into the sack and grabs an overflowing handful of birdseed, which spills from her fingers as she takes her hand out and offers some to Ryuunosuke. Ryuunosuke cups his hand as she lets about half of it fall, and they toss the seed in an arc across the sidewalk. A few people stop in their tracks, look between the camera and the two darkly-dressed teenagers, and walk behind the camera to avoid them.
A flock of pigeons swoops down, wings fluttering and beaks chirping, numerous enough to drown out the noise of traffic. They land in perfect formation, scattering across the sidewalk. One quirks an eye at the lens, but is quickly focused on the birdseed in front of it.
A few clips are shown of an afternoon spent watching birds. Most of the clips, Ryuunosuke and Gin are quiet, enjoying each other’s presence and the atmosphere. In one, a bird pecks at Ryuunosuke’s shoe before being scared away by stomping. Gin rewards the bird’s bravery with more birdseed. In another, a bird lands in Ryuunosuke’s hair, who swings wildly at it before rising to his feet with fury etched into his face. Gin covers her mouth, laughing gently before doubling over on herself and kicking her feet—birds hop away from the chaos. Another has Gin hand-feeding birds. One pecks her skin and she yelps, pulling her elbow back and knocking the sack of birdseed over. Ryuunosuke’s lip quirks as the birds begin to crowd around the bench.
They rise to their feet and step away from the gathering flock. “We should get some rest before work,” Gin says.
“Yes,” Ryuunosuke says, looking to the sun, “we should.”
Just then, the camera flies from the ground. It is tucked under the arm of someone, who shouts, “Suckers!” The voice sounds like it comes from a teenager. The camera, pressed close to his body, picks up his loud thudding footsteps as he runs through the park away from the mafiosi.
He doesn’t get very far, however, before freezing in place. A squelching sound comes from his chest, as well as a sound that can only be described as animalistic—like an angry wasp’s nest, flapping wings of birds of prey, a low growl of a stalking predator, the scuttling of arachnids. The camera falls from his grip and lands in front of him, facing his horrified face looking down at the black spike impaling him. It flickers, upset at being on film, and is removed from his body.
The thief falls to the ground by the camera, and Ryuunosuke picks the camera up, dusting it off and examining it to ensure it isn’t broken. “A shameless idiot, to steal from the lowest targets. A mistake you only make once.”
In the next clip Ryuunosuke is not present. Gin wears a mask over the lower half of her face, and since the last clip was taken took to wearing her hair up in a frantic style. She stands behind a man with brightly colored hair tied in a ponytail, wearing a hat and, strangely, a dog collar. They are standing in Ryuunosuke’s office. No sunlight comes in through the window.
“There. I think it’s on,” the man says, and flips open his phone.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Gin says, “You know how he can be.”
The man scoffs. “Which one?”
“Either.” She reaches out and grabs his arm. “I mean it, Chuuya—sir. You don’t know what they’re like.”
“All the more reason.”
Chuuya dials a number. It rings, rings, rings. No answer. He dials it again, and this time it picks up after a few rings. He sets the camera on Ryuunosuke’s desk, facing the two of them.
“Sorry to call you so late. Are you at home?”
A pause. Despite her protesting, Gin covers her mouth to stop herself from laughing.
“There’s something going on. I just got word that two people were seen breaking into your apartment. Do you have any valuables or documents there?”
Another pause.
“Is that Dazai asking?”
Short pause. Gin lets a laugh slip, and Chuuya covers his phone to send a glare her way.
“Sorry about that. I only ask because Ango Sakaguchi mentioned something about the delinquents. A pair tried breaking into my apartment, and I was handling it outside of the organization, but I thought I’d ask. He mentioned something about an organization called 42?”
There’s a long pause. Gin holds up the numbers four and two on her fingers, and cocks her head. Chuuya covers the phone and whispers, “That’s what Ango told me to say. If he’s right, we just sent Dazai on a wild goose chase.”
Chuuya listens to Ryuunosuke’s response. “Thank you. If you find anything out, call me.”
He snaps his phone shut. “Now we wait.”
Chuuya is laying with his back against the ceiling, holding Gin by the wrist who lays next to him. The ceiling is low, between seven and eight feet high. The room they are in has never been shown on camera. An empty shoe and coatrack sits by a door, left ajar to let in light from a brightly-lit hallway.
Ryuunosuke stands outside the doorway with his hands in his pockets. He is bleeding from a wound on his temple that he seems entirely unbothered by, and as he steps into his apartment he favors his right side, though not significantly enough to tell if he sustained injuries to his leg or his ribs. He has grown in height and strength since the last clip, and the coat he wears has begun to fit him, though it still makes his shoulders look small.
When Ryuunosuke is below them, Chuuya shouts, “Get him!” as they fall from the ceiling, pouncing like cats. Ryuunosuke’s eyes fly into rage, and his arms tense as a refraction of light, humming with the animalistic sound of his ability, forms around him. Chuuya and Gin land on this surface with an “oof,” Gin sliding off and flipping to land on her feet and Chuuya bouncing to float to the ground.
Ryuunosuke lashes out with two blades made from, it is clear now, the fabric of his coat at the throats of Chuuya and Gin, but quickly disperses them when he recognizes the two pranksters.
“When the hell did you learn how to do that?” Chuuya asks.
Ryuunosuke groans, and clutches at his right side.
“Are you okay?” Gin asks, and starts to reach for him.
Ryuunosuke takes a step away from them both, heavily favoring his right side now. “I’m fine. I missed my block during training.”
“And you were still going?” Chuuya pinches the bridge of his nose. “That idiot has to be a pain to work for. He gets on my nerves enough as it is, and I don’t have to take orders from him.”
Ryuunosuke steadies his breathing. “Did you do this to get me out of work?”
Chuuya smiles. “Two reasons. One: getting away with lying to Dazai and messing with his plans is funny. Two—”
“—It’s been a year since we joined!” Gin interjects, and then shrinks into herself, glancing through her bangs at Chuuya. “Sorry.”
Chuuya walks to the camera and picks it up. “You better not be too tired to go out for the night.”
Ryuunosuke is taken aback. “Go out? You interrupted my training for a night of drinking?”
Chuuya shrugs. He hands the camera to Gin, who turns it around to face the two of them, facing off. “Drinking is optional, but if you do, I’m buying. As your superior, I am only ordering that you ignore any calls from Dazai for the rest of the night, and all of tomorrow.”
“Dazai is my superior.”
“Dazai and I are the same rank. A direct order from an executive overrides any indirect order from another one, like a phone call.”
Ryuunosuke digests what Chuuya is saying. He nods after a moment. “I’ll allow it for tonight.”
Chuuya slings his arm around Ryuunosuke’s shoulder. Ryuunosuke’s hair floats as if submerged in water, and he is able to straighten his posture. His steps out of his apartment are light. Gravity weighs on him a little less, and his injury can be ignored for the time being.
“Why are you doing this?” Ryuunosuke spits. The question jumps out in spite of his efforts to hold it back.
Chuuya laughs. “Has no one told you? The one-year mark is a big deal in the mafia. It’s a tradition.”
Ryuunosuke doesn’t respond, seeming unsatisfied with the response.
Cut to a bar. A lively one, with neon lights that don’t show up well on camera. The footage appears as if the lens itself has an astigmatism, with bright streaks of light crossing over it. Loud pop music drowns out the voices of the well-dressed group gathered for Gin and Ryuunosuke’s first year in the mafia. Everyone holds a glass of champagne, and cutting through the music a loud clink can be heard as they toast.
Among the group is a woman dressed in a kimono decorated with flowers, an older gentleman with a long scarf wrapped around his neck, a man with big round glasses and worried brow, and a man with similar hair to Chuuya’s, though much lighter, who is significantly taller and quite a bit older.
Chuuya is already flushed from alcohol, talking loudly, though not clear enough to pick up. Gin doesn’t seem to know what to do with her glass, whether to drink it or set it down and forget about it.
The camera is left to the side of the table, catching them chatting amongst each other. Ryuunosuke is gently bopping his head to the music.
The man with round glasses sits by Ryuunosuke, anxiously looking between him and the camera. Finally, he works up the courage to ask Ryuunosuke a question, pointing at the camera. The question is spoken too quietly, but Ryuunosuke speaks louder and more confidently, so his response is audible.
“Do you have a collection?”
The man stammers, flustered.
“Would you like to take a closer look?” Ryuunosuke asks, and passes the camera to the man.
The man takes the camera and begins examining it with some amount of expertise, knowing where to look in order to determine the model, year, condition, and so on of the camera. Closer to the mic, his voice is clearer. “I’m not much of a collector, but I have an appreciation for the things that the world has left behind. Just because there’s a trendier style or newer model doesn’t mean we can’t keep the older ones around. I mean, what kind of a world would we have if no one cared to remember where we came from?”
The man turns the camera so it is facing the ceiling, so Ryuunosuke’s face is not visible on the footage. He speaks after a moment. “You have a tender heart for a member of the Port Mafia.”
“Hah,” he huffs, and sets the camera back where it was, “I suppose that’s why the Boss has me doing the paperwork. I’m Ango. Our sectors don’t overlap much, so I don’t blame you if you haven’t heard of me.”
“Chuuya mentioned that you assisted with his plan. It is,” he coughs, “very much appreciated.”
In the background, the man with hair similar to Chuuya’s taps on Gin’s shoulder. They have a brief conversation that neither Ango nor Ryuunosuke take note of as they get absorbed in a conversation about their shared interest.
A cut to a short time later. Ryuunosuke is uncomfortably tipsy, and considering his age it may not be something he is comfortable with yet. The champagne level in Gin's glass is the same as it was after the toast.
“I can’t believe Chuuya would buy two teenagers champagne,” Ango voices.
“This is the mafia, angel,” the woman in the kimono says gently, “If you have trouble stomaching underage drinking, consider another line of work.”
“Ugh,” he says, massaging his temple. Ryuunosuke seems inclined to agree, if only because he is quite literally struggling to stomach it.
The music abruptly stops, and switches to something bass-heavy with a fast drum beat. A layer of electric guitars comes in, with a warm sound. It has the quality of an older song, from the 70s or 80s. The vocals are not clear enough to pick up.
Ryuunosuke’s head snaps to Gin, whose eyes are crinkled and mouth surely beaming in a smile under the mask.
“Verlaine?” he asks, and she shrugs. He rolls his eyes, crosses his arms, and sits back in his seat, but unconsciously his finger begins tapping to the rhythm. It is a song he is familiar with, and may even be a favorite.
Cut to everyone gathered around a pool table. The camera is at a good distance, and on a surface lower than the table, so the game itself can’t be seen. Ryuunosuke has the cue stick, and a serious expression as he lines up the shot, charges up the shot, and hits it. A loud smack followed by a gentle thud is heard above music similar to the song playing before. Chuuya cheers loudly, and the others clap Ryuunosuke on the back for the shot. His expression doesn’t change at all from the serious, blank stare, as he wrings his hand around the cue stick. A neon sign behind him shines brightly on the back of his head, bathing his hair in light.
The next clip is in his office, with the older model of camera. It is night. Ryuunosuke steps into frame from behind the camera and collapses into his desk chair. His body does not seem to have a hint of energy left in it.
He turns in the chair to face the camera, but doesn’t look at it. His eyes are closed.
His voice is hoarse when he speaks, “I finally learned how to stop bullets. I am invulnerable. Soon, my attacks will be unstoppable as well.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long time. It is the longest clip so far, consisting only of him taken gentle, ragged breaths, with his eyes closed.
“I don’t need you anymore,” he says. His eyes open and stare down the lens. The force of it is chilling. “I won’t become like you. Discarded. Prized only by the sentimental fools who have nothing better to put in its place.”
A beast from his coat forms, and its jaws lunge at the lens of the camera. The cause of this decision is left unspoken.
The next clip opens in pitch black. Graininess of the footage occasionally tricks the eyes into believing it is light, but it doesn’t ever form a consistent shape. A sound like the camera itself is being whacked by styrofoam on all sides rings.
The sound stops, and Ryuunosuke’s voice speaks. “What is this?”
His voice has filled out in the time since the last clip, and lost the immaturity of his teenage years, but it also sounds even more weary.
“Um!” A woman’s voice squeaks. “It’s a gift. For you.”
“Why?”
“Because—because it’s Christmas! And I was talking with Gin outside of work, and she mentioned—she—just open it!”
Ryuunosuke hums, and seconds later a tearing noise reveals light. The camera is pointed up at him and a blonde woman looking expectantly at his face. This footage, however, is in color. The quality is not up to standard with the most modern cameras of the day, and unlike the previous cameras is pixelated.
He takes it out of the box and flips it around, facing a black car with a driver waiting for the two.
“Did she happen to mention that I threw out my cameras years ago?”
“Oh!” she squeaks, “No, she, um, she didn’t mention that. I’m sorry, Akutagawa, I can return it—”
“—Don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t thought of those in years, but—yes. It was a moment of emotional turbulence that caused me to throw them away. You have surprised me, Higuchi. This is a wonderful gift.”
“Really? I mean—thank you! Or—you’re welcome! Or—um—I am glad—”
“—Let’s go. We have work to do.”
“Right. Of course. Let’s go.”
He switches off the camera.
The last clips don’t seem to have a theme. Some are taken during the night, some are taken during the day, and some are a recording of a sound. Some are short, some are longer. The editing is choppy and by any technical measure, poorly done.
Cherry blossoms falling from a tree. A petal falls onto the camera.
An electric billboard at night, advertising a brand of chocolate. The colors of the sign bleed into the darkness, and paint the surrounding buildings in reds and whites.
A man busking with his acoustic guitar. He’s not very good, but he is very energetic.
Darkness. Rain patters against a window.
Gin and a red-haired man are lounging in an office building. The red-haired man tells a joke, and Gin laughs while tossing a knife. Her laugh is stifled so that it makes no sound, but can still be seen from the crinkle in her eyes.
Graffiti art of two ballet dancers. The sunrise paints it in orange.
Another tree, this one perfectly ordinary. Wide green leaves and a brown trunk.
The same tree, the same day, but the trunk has three claw marks scorched into the wood. The marks barely scratch the surface.
Yokohama skyline from the top of a building. A long clip of about five minutes, as twilight gives way into night and the lights of the buildings overtake the light of the sky.
A man with white hair cut at a diagonal and a poorly-tied tie around his neck looks at him, confused. “When did you start carrying a camera?” he asks. No response. “Why are you filming me?” No response. “And now you’ve stopped talking—you’re so weird—”
A crepe stand, left abandoned. The pink and yellow design of their logo peels off of the sign and flaps in the wind.
And finally, a dozen clips of his office. A new one, in a different apartment. Each clip has a new camera, more stacks of film reels. A tan-colored desktop computer in a cube shape, appears at his desk, which is now carved with intricate, flowing designs. Other things appear, too. Thick patterned curtains in a deep blue shade, faded in the center from years of sun exposure. A worn-out rug to cover the floor. A typewriter goes on a separate desk, and another lamp joins it.
There is one theme to the clips. Ryuunosuke doesn’t show up in a single one, but his presence shines through anyway.