Chapter Text
"I miss my mom." Dazai watched as the small girl sniffled, rubbing at her cheeks in the middle of the bustling street; dots of red, white, and blue littered the jet-black night. Footsteps ushered on, few gazes dropping to the floor. Cars blared in distant traffic, a drunk man stumbled out of the bar with cigarette smoke clinging to his attire, a group of friends left the arcade with one lamenting over loss and the other boasting of their win. Lastly, a couple giggled with their fingers intertwined. Each passerby overlooked the child, content in the comfort of their separate worlds. The pale light of dawn splattered against the horizon; rain hit the cobbled ground. In the frigid air, she trembled, her torn t-shirt glued to her skin. Then, darkness enshrouded her. The pair of wide, beady eyes landed on heeled boots.
"Are you lost, sweetheart?"
The voice calling out, the umbrella tilting over her head like branches, its leaves splayed during a dry spell, casting a shadow. Which for most would probably be…
Pleasant? Dazai thought. Yes, it was most likely pleasant. She could eat tonight: you can pluck crimson pomes from a bough.
"Do you know where you last saw her? I can help you search."
Nodding, she tugged at her sleeve.
"Over there."
○○○
Footsteps approached as they closed in, hand in hand.
"My mom said she was going to see a friend… she told me to wait for her, but she hasn't come back yet."
"Are you sure she was here? I don't see anyone." Nor were there any pubs or bars, just towering layers of brick at every corner.
○○○
The woman hit the ground with a thud, jaw split open as a round pierced her skull, eyes blown wide. An outstretched arm, fingers the bait as she sauntered over to the hitman, holding a bundle of green, bound via an elastic band, which she placed into her rosy knitted pouch.
The wind blew away the umbrella the compassionate lady once held, and in place of words, a gurgled plea spilt from her lips.
Liver, lungs, kidneys, stomach, heart, hair, skin. The port mafia handled most trade within their territory, and these sold for a reasonable price on the black market; prized possessions for underground doctors.
There were a dozen men in suits in the surrounding area, revealing themselves from hiding to await new orders, loaded Makarov PMs at the ready.
"Stay on guard for the clean-up group. You should be mindful not to leave a single witness or trace, as that detective agency and the new police investigations department have been cracking down on us." He droned, twiddling with a tuft of his waves.
Dazai watched her retreat into the shadows after payment. That girl had an exaggerated, incessant call of a fledgling cuckoo. He’d seen plenty of similar nature in the mafia. It only takes a glance to see such darkness was not deserving of nurture. Her eyelids and cheeks were sore from the rubbing, pink from the biting cold, but she had yet to shed a tear. Nothing but a dark star that only steals from the brood. Abreast of her was the devil himself, for his own hunger was insatiable. Any person with vision could see she and they were not the same. Not quite human. Those who look with open pores in their hearts oozing irrational emotion would soon meet their demise.
The body itself had stopped twitching, a few streams of blood dribbling about her forehead, so removing evidence should be a manageable feat today, at least. In addition, the bullet seemed to have ricocheted in her brain, so she was a husk in only a few seconds… it was a pity he didn't have the chance to ask what senses she experienced or the pain she endured or what she saw in her final moments before being embraced by death.
Never mind that, he still had work to do.
Plastic rattled as it grated against teeth. Gnawed at by the man dressed in black seated at a solid walnut desk—half his face, arms, and neck wrapped in fresh, white bandages.
Knock knock knock
A beat and then—
"Enter."
His subordinate sidled in, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
"Sir, the trade was a success. We bought the million counterfeit—"
The man straightened up, waving his hand limply.
"Hai hai." Then, gesturing with a slender finger, he pointed to the bamboo box beside himself, then said:
"Leave it in there, Azukari." He switched off the Game Boy still frozen on the 'victory' screen. "Reminder to get me this week's invoice and guard warehouse 34 as scheduled."
A bead of sweat rolled down Azukari's forehead, his gaze darting to the bookshelf as he placed the ¥10,000 notes inside. "Yes, Dazai-san." He bowed before making a beeline to the exit.
Quiet.
Nails drummed on the hardwood; attention fixed on the neat stack of cash.
It was too bad he couldn't touch them.
A broken compass meandered the Yokohama pavements, Doppo Poet, pockets heavy as he dragged his fettered feet. His apartment was in sight. A seedy place where the only light seeped in through the windows. Back straight, suit fastidious, shoes shining—bile ran down his throat with each step: the thought of utilising the only remnant of his father—a rare collectable notebook—for such unsavoury means. A gift like this could have been used for justice: to prevent a repeat of what occurred 3 years ago.
Walking with purpose, his head momentarily in the clouds whilst ruminating on recent decisions; his leg bumped into something. Or, to be more accurate, he was too distracted to move out of the way before a girl with an unkempt appearance, soaked to the bone, clutching her handbag as if it was precious, tumbled to the ground. She choked out a few sobs as she looked down at her leg, scraped with pricks of claret slowly pooling to a puddle on her knee.
Kunikida sank to her level, inclined to help her. Except, she braced, with the glare of an ensnared waterfowl.
"I'm sorry, I should have focused on my surroundings more." No reply. She bit down on her quivering lips, all her strength ostensibly on not appearing weak in front of a stranger. "How about a magic trick to make up for it?"
"Magic? There's no such thing as magic; it doesn't exist." Lifting her head, only now did she absorb the appearance of this boy, not a man. He had blonde hair that barely reached his neck, rectangular glasses, but was dressed like he just returned from work.
Letting out a soft chuckle, he pulled a notebook from his vest. "I used to believe that at your age, but sure enough, it does exist." He started writing on a blank page, hidden from her view. Then, tearing it out, he said the words "Doppo Poet" in full confidence. There was no rational explanation for how a paper materialised into a handkerchief; it was just how it was. Her eyes were as wide as saucers as he tied the cloth around her knee. Question after question escaped her, rapid-fire. Indeed, he was quite elated to answer each one, as it meant she was no longer holding a grudge for the fall.
It would be less than ideal if injuring a child were added to Kunikida's mounting list of regrets.