Chapter Text
Something is amiss.
Akutagawa thrusts Rashomon into a nearby wall, using the momentum to veer into the perpendicular alley.
He speeds up, at last within grabbing distance of the perpetrator when they again disappear from his sight, a new set of footsteps fading into an alley running in the opposite direction.
Based on the sound of their footsteps and length of their strides, there has to be at least half-a-dozen individuals, all dressed in matching black, darting in and out of alleyways.
He cannot shake the feeling that some otherworldly force is watching him, laughing at him chase his own tail like some ill-bred mutt.
A click and hiss force Akutagawa to stop, narrowly avoiding running face-first a plume of noxious smoke. He covers his mouth and takes a guarded step back, eyes watering and throat burning with the need to cough.
Another closed route.
He’s suspected as such, but now there is no doubt in his mind.
He’s being lead somewhere.
Trepidation surfaces and growls.
The feeling is an unusual visitor – after all, Akutagawa’s intuition is no delicate thing. The beast within has splintered bones between its’ canines and fur matted with decades of blood, fed and nurtured to a size that supersedes fear of men, of monsters, of mortality itself.
What could his intuition possibly be warning him of?
What in this world could pose a threat to him – especially with his mentor by his side?
Taking the only available route, Akutagawa picks up speed. Eyes dart in and out of alleyways, to doors, to windows, to any sign of motion when –
He emerges into an open space.
The exposure to the night sky, the sound of waves, the scent of the sea air itself has Akutagawa faltering in his steps.
He stops, chest heaving with exertion as he takes in the unexpected change in surroundings.
The monotonous greys of generic industrial buildings and it’s maze-like passageways give way to a small, almost unnoticeable shipyard.
Outlined by a crosshatch fence on one side and the oil-slick sea on the other, the only indications that the hidden yard has not been long abandoned are the flickering floodlights and the chain lock tightly wrapped around the metal gates.
Its not five seconds later that Oda emerges from a parallel alley. He keeps his gun raised as he transitions gracefully from a jog to a walk before stopping at Akutagawa’s side, not betraying a single sign of exertion.
His mentor doesn’t say anything, so Akutagawa takes it upon himself to state the obvious.
“This is a trap.”
The other’s eyes dart toward him before returning to roam the shipyard.
“Seems so.”
Without so much as a word, Oda walks directly to the fence just to the right of the gate. He probes at it a few times with the heel of boot before slamming the fence with butt of his gun.
The wiring gives instantly, revealing a too-convenient human-sized hole.
Akutagawa’s eyebrow twitches as he approaches, gaze lingering on the ridiculously conspicuous wire cutters discarded next to the makeshift entrance.
“Ambush?” Akutagawa wonders aloud.
“Maybe.”
“Port Mafia?”
Oda squats down, examining the entrance with a hand on his chin.
“Doubt it,” he finally answers as he stands, dusting off his shoulders from imagined dirt.
Akutagawa knows he’s right, even if that acknowledgement comes with a paradoxical twinge of disappointment.
Since their showdown at the Port Mafia headquarters, he’s been itching to test himself against the White Reaper again.
Alas, the White Reaper will not show. Even if this area wasn’t too small and too far outside their territory, when the Port Mafia finally decides to wage war against the Armed Detective Agency (which they inevitably will,) it is going to be a spectacle.
There would be no tricks or subterfuge or ambushes in the dead of night. No – the White Reaper would emerge, glorious claws at his neck, the word mercy long forgotten as he bleeds him out in daylight streets.
What use is his corpse, if not to send a message?
That fate, however, is not right at hand.
For now, the Armed Detective Agency is useful to them.
He and Oda have been crushing rising crime organizations – a job that the Port Mafia would often take upon themselves - single-handedly for months.
This job should be no different.
Should is the operating word.
Against every semblance of logic, Akutagawa’s feet refuse to move.
Oda, as he is apt to do, notices.
“…What is it?”
There’s a subtle concern in his tone, one that he uses only when speaking to his orphans.
Akutagawa’s throat tightens.
He desperately wants to puff up his chest, march forward, and pretend the trepidation ravaging his insides is naught but residual paranoia from his days in the slums.
“…Do you see anything?” Akutagawa croaks out instead, glancing at his mentor for long enough to gauge his reaction but not long enough to catch the other’s eye.
Oda eyes stay on Akutagawa’s face for a beat too long, slowly re-focusing on the shipyard before them when he obtains whatever answer he’s been searching for in Akutagawa’s pores.
“Not yet.”
Akutagawa knows - trusts - Flawless. He’s been on the other end of its clairvoyance a myriad of times. Despite his most furious attempts, he has yet to land a single hit on his mentor. Not with schemes, not with blind rage, not with middle of the night sneak-attacks or unfortunate break-ins during showers.
Each step he made, Oda had already foreseen.
Flawless has never once been wrong.
His intuition does not share such a pristine track record.
He inhales deeply, nose wrinkling at the stale sea air, and signals to his superior with Rashomon’s head in lieu of speaking:
You: left.
Me: right.
Oda gives him a half-nod in acknowledgement before squatting, crawling on his knees through the opening in the fence. Akutagawa, instead, propels himself over the chicken wire with Rashomon, sending a smirk toward his less-than-thrilled mentor.
Its particularly satisfying when he hears the other’s knees cracking as he stands.
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Akutagawa turns away from Oda and starts the slow and arduous task of ‘canvassing’ this God-forsaken place.
No one had informed him when he joined the Armed Detective Agency just how many of the city’s shipyards he would become intimately familiar with.
Yokohama is Japan’s largest port city. Being the hub of most of the nation’s imports and exports naturally leads to some of said products being of the less-than-legal nature. It is much easier to conceal any multitude of crimes if said criminal activities are embedded within a legitimate business.
This shipyard is not much different than the others. It is made up of a dock for smaller boats, several rusting cranes, and a surplus of mid-sized shipping containers stacked one on top of another in columns of threes. Peeling paint and faded trademarks give away their advanced age – clearly not a high volume or high profit enterprise, this.
Akutagawa tsks. He briefly considers the risks versus benefits of making this macabre hide-and-seek game more efficient and simply skewering through each container with Rashomon, letting the resultant blood flow lead them to the (mildly injured and/or less-than-mildly injured) perpetrators-in-hiding.
…He flinches at the memory of the extensive verbal lashing he got from Kunikida last time such a thought came to fruition. Not to mention the much lighter paycheck that same month.
With a sigh, Akutagawa starts his search. He uses Rashomon to sever the locks, hopping up into the highest container first, making his way down systematically. The floodlights are few and far in between, but there’s still just enough light to fetter out any potential human bodies hiding amongst the bags of – Akutagawa glances down at the labels - rice, beans, and noodles.
One after another, he examines the containers top to bottom, and one after another, they remain utterly and completely devoid of life.
It’s as if those half-dozen people he’s spent the past several hours pursuing vanished into thin air.
It seems impossible. The trail so clearly lead here. Outside the sea itself, there is no other avenue of escape. If they had somehow procured a boat for their getaway, he’s certain either himself or Oda would notice.
Rashomon wraps tighter against his person, its impatience mimicking his own. The evening is growing ever cooler and the thought of his warm futon and leftover soup stirs inside him an unfamiliar longing.
How trite.
He’s lived this approximation of a ‘normal life’ for a mere few months and he’s already become this spoiled.
Still, he can’t help but feel relieved at the prospect of this ridiculous chase ending as he approaches the final unexplored stack of shipping containers.
Rashomon slices through the remaining locks cleanly and propels him to the top. He wrinkles his nose at the piles of dried fish, more-than-happy to swing to the middle container filled with the much more tolerable kanbutsu of carrots, mushrooms, and dehydrated daikon.
As soon as he’s cleared the final container, he will re-group with Oda.
Ideally, the man has already captured the others.
If they had somehow made a get-away… Well.
He and Oda have never claimed to be the more cerebral members of the Armed Detective Agency.
If the brawns have failed, the brains will have their time in the sun. As they say.
The second he opens the door, a jolt of something rips down his spine, makes all the hairs on his skin stand on end.
The enclosed space and partially obscured lights cast ominous shadows on the silhouette of something - a man - casually sitting in the center of the empty container upon a three-legged stool.
His eyes zero in on a movement, Rashomon flaring around him as muscles tense to defend.
Said movement is not an attack – no, it’s the rhythmic flick of the man’s thumb; the golden coin catches the light from the open door, reflecting off the man’s circular glasses.
The man is older - perhaps President Fukuzawa’s age. His forehead is accentuated by his receding hairline, unusual appearance completed with a prominent, triangular nose above thin, pale lips. One ankle crossed over his knee, shoulders loose and smile wide, he seems paradoxically casual despite the notably not-at-all-casual circumstance.
He’s dressed much the same as the individuals he and Oda had been chasing. Loose black trousers tucked into black army-boots, a loose black robe draping down to the knees, the hood of said robe draping down around his neck. Around said neck, embroidered in gold, is a circle-like pattern with eight outcroppings, much like petals on a flower; within each pole, a circle, one purely white and one purely black. Much like the phases of the moon, as they near the center, they seem to merge petal-by-petal until the center is in perfect halves.
Something so ornate wouldn’t be worn by a mere grunt.
No – his age, his dress, his alarming confidence - this man must be someone higher ranking in this mystery organization.
Perhaps even the boss.
Akutagawa smirks.
Maybe this wild goose-chase has not been quite as pointless as he previously thought.
“You’ve been caught. It would be in your advantage to come with me quietly.”
Rashomon flies out in a flurry of blades, stopping a few tantalizing millimeters from the man’s carotids.
The man does not so much as flinch at the palpable threat. Instead, he continues with his odd ministrations, thumb flicking the coin into the air and capturing it on his fist.
Flick. A metallic ting. The sound of coin hitting flesh.
Over and over, in perfect rhythm, as if matching a phantasmal heartbeat.
Akutagawa steps closer to the other, attempting to temper his annoyance at the utter lack of reaction.
“Did you not hear me, old man? I said surrender,” Akutagawa barks, voice rising. “That is, unless you’re truly so desperate to exsanguinate upon this dock like the rest of the livestock.”
The man responds to that with a subtle tilt of his head. The glare off his glasses disappears, revealing dark, intelligent eyes.
There is a calculating mirth behind them – one that reminds Akutagawa a little too much of a particular Man in Black.
His breath catches.
This feeling – it’s not unlike what he felt age fourteen, faced with the devil incarnate himself.
Or what he felt in that coffee shop, situated one stool away from the embodiment of the grim reaper disguised by a sugar-sweet smile and kaleidoscopic eyes.
The man before him wears a human skin, yes, but there’s something more – something otherworldly, something dangerous – underneath.
Is this the person his intuition tried to save him from?
“…Heads? Or tails?” the man finally speaks, annunciating each word harshly through his thick accent.
Akutagawa furrows his brow, taking another step forward.
The bespectacled man’s build is average, if not on the portly side. There may very well be weapons beneath his robes, but none that would be faster than Rashomon’s Spatial Distortion.
He sees nothing suspicious on his person, no evidence of others hiding in the shadows, nothing that can explain the mounting sense of doom within Akutagawa’s breastbone.
“I am not interested in playing games. Stand up and surrender. If you do not, I will be less inclined to keep this civil.”
The man continues to speak as if he had not heard Akutagawa.
“The question itself is a farce. In the air, the coin is both and neither. All realties exist simultaneously within – “ he flicks the coin once more, “this moment.”
Akutagawa’s eyes unintentionally drawn to the coin, following its fall down to the man’s closed fist, nearly jumping at the sudden SMACK of his previously idle right hand slamming over the exposed coin.
“Despite the fact that an objective ‘result’ exists - that a decision has been ‘made’ by our universe - until either you or I are able to witness it, it continues to exist ‘in flux.’ A quantum state, if you will.”
The man’s eyes land on him once more, lifting his hand.
Eyes dart down.
Heads.
“You are such a coin. The universe has decided on Heads. That is the objective reality.”
He flips it again.
Flick. A metallic ting. The sound of coin hitting flesh.
Heads.
He flips it again.
Flick. A metallic ting. The sound of coin hitting flesh.
Heads.
“…And yet, someone keeps flipping. Keeps attempting to twist fate into a different outcome. You’re constantly in flux. Can you not feel it?”
Akutagawa’s head throbs.
Lights flash before his eyes.
Dark, then light. White, then black. Up, then down.
Within the reflection of the other’s glasses, he can makes out a man that shares his face. Gaunt and dull-eyed, dressed in the Man in Black’s coat. He does not look back.
Akutagawa staggers back, clutching his head as the pulsing grows stronger, louder, more insistent. His heart races, muscles tighten, nerves burn, all urging desperately for him to Run! Run! Run!
“If- if you are stalling for rescue, I’ll inform you that my partner has more than likely incapacitated the rest of your merry band of thieves and is searching for me as we speak. I will not ask again. Surrender.”
Akutagawa swallows thickly, forcing himself to sound unaffected by the mans’ manipulation. Rashomon had wilted in his moment of weakness, and he re-engages it’s dark blades, shining and vicious against the madman’s throat.
“Stalling?” The man tilts his head, grin pure vitriol.
“…Why, my dear boy. You were the target all along.”
As if on command, the doors of the shipping container slam closed, lock snapping into place, encasing the two of them in absolute darkness.
Akutagawa spins on his heels, Rashomon abandoning its post at the other man’s neck.
Enough of this.
Oda will understand.
Gin will understand.
With a growl, Akutagawa’s unleashes Rashomon from its restraint, allowing his ability to tornado around his person – at last, free, no longer subdued by the guild that’s been his bedfellow from the moment Gin looked him in the eyes and called him ‘evil.’
It rages around him, reducing the metallic container to mere ribbons. Above them, heavy clouds roll in, obscuring the moon’s light.
The sound of thunder.
It reverberates inside him, sounding like a growl.
He surges towards the man with the coin, and –
Everything stops.
It’s like he’s in stuck in stasis. He cannot move, cannot think, cannot breathe. The only thing that seems to move before him is that man, light shining off his glasses, persistent ominous grin on his lips.
The phases of the moon, shifting and changing as if they’re alive, on his collar.
Then, a single sound –
The flick of the coin.
In slow motion, it turns in mid-air. Once. Twice. Three times.
Heads then tails then heads then tails.
Suspended in time, constantly in flux, somehow always moving even as the Earth stands still.
You are such a coin.
The moment the coin lands, Akutagawa can move again.
Akutagawa lunges forward, Rashomon lashing out in breakneck speeds, ready for the kill –
A white light that had, almost unnoticeably, started around the coin spreads; first to the man’s his fist, then his arm, then his torso, then the whole of the container with Akutagawa in it. It presses on him, crushes him, pushes at him with a supernatural force and despite his best resistance his entire body flies backwards as if he weighs no more than a piece of stationary.
He attempts to grasp on to anything – the remains of the container, the hinges of the doors, the concrete as it passes beneath him – but his body does not listen.
Helpless, he tumbles through the air, spinning and flipping, no different than that accursed coin.
The last thing he feels is his neck snapping backward, the sound of crashing metal, and a horrific pain in his head.
He falls limp to the ground, the world around him fading to black.
(Behind his eyelids, he sees Gin. She walks in the darkness of his psyche, white dress flowing behind her. She turns to him, eyes warm, smiling as she reaches a hand towards him.
He tries to reach back.
But his hands aren’t his hands.
He looks back, and his fingers are covered in blood.
He looks up, and Gin is there, ten years old, dressed in rags, looking at him like he’s a monster.
He’s losing her, and there’s nothing he can do about it.)
The sensation of water congregating in the corners of his lips, flowing down his jaw and pooling on his chest is offensive enough to force him awake.
He groans, attempting to sit up, eyes sticking together despite his attempt at blinking.
It must have been raining for some time now – his clothes and hair are soaked through, the concrete on which he sits a collection of nothing more than dirty puddles. Beyond the clouds, the tell-tale signs of dawn peek over the horizon.
The destroyed container lies before him, its metallic ribbons hidden by the two collapsed atop. He had been launched safely by the Coin Man’s power to bash his head against the opposing stack of crates.
How lucky.
He grimaces, flexing his numb hands several times to circulate some blood before probing the back of his skull.
No tenderness, bumps, or blood as far as he can tell. That means there’s no life-threatening injury; although, that doesn’t rule out a concussion.
A serious one, if the amount of time he’s lost is anything to go by.
Still, beside the pounding headache, he doesn’t feel any other physical symptoms. No weakness, no nausea, no memory loss. He can easily recite the months of the year backwards and subtract by seven. Besides, if this truly was a concussion and he had been lying in this tetanus-ridden shipyard for hours, there is no feasible situation in which Oda and the others wouldn’t have already found him.
The more likely possibility is that this has something to do with the ability the Coin Man used on him.
Akutagawa uses Rashomon to help him stand, the ability wringing his coat from soaked to damp as he attempts to recount exactly what had happened.
The man’s words mean less than nothing, but a few curious events of the previous evening stand out. For one, Akutagawa seemed to be suspended in time itself the moment before the activation of said ability. Also, said ability activated faster than Rashomon – a feat he’s seen only in the setting of literal clairvoyance.
…A time traveling ability, perhaps?
Akutagawa frowns. Unlikely – if they exist at all, they’re rare – but certainly not impossible.
It’s the only explanation he can think of as to how Coin Man could outwit Flawless.
He clicks his tongue, deriding himself mentally. He was a fool. He should have listened to his instincts, known better than to charge at an unknown assailant, especially with Oda not being there as backup….
Akutagawa blinks.
That’s right.
Oda.
His mentor must be worried.
It would be like him.
He digs in his pockets for his phone, flipping it open.
The water-logged screen alternating rainbow colors is not promising. He attempts the power button, but the useless thing doesn’t so much as flash. He fights the impulse to throw the phone on the ground and finish the job once and for all.
… He pats himself on the back momentarily for overcoming such an easy-to-succumb-to impulse.
With a sigh, he rubs his persistently throbbing temple, tosses his non-functioning phone back in his pocket, and starts the arduous walk back to the Agency.
Yokohama is only now waking to the day. The streets are nearly empty of cars, allowing the gutters to build up puddles. He sidesteps them when he can, grimacing at the squishing of wet socks in his dress-shoes when he cannot.
Rashomon hovers over his head as a makeshift umbrella, shifting to avoid the splash of passing cars. The first trains of the morning are starting to let out bleary-eyed commuters, a sea of umbrellas dispersing throughout the commerce district. He must look like a complete wreck for all these people to cross the street just to avoid him.
At the moment, its likely for the best. His nerves as wound up as they are, he’s not so certain an accidental shoulder bump won’t devolve into a crime scene.
Still, the unpleasant walk is enough to dispel enough of his frustration to give way to the fatigue underneath. His lips, ears and nose have gone numb long ago, hands barely saved in their hide-away of his still-damp pockets. His stomach churns, reminding him that he has not eaten since the previous morning.
He cannot recall the last time he’s felt so tired – he supposes a black-out due to head trauma does not exactly equate to a full night’s sleep. Even if it had been for nearly eight full hours.
He grimaces at the sensation of his clothes sticking to his skin. He’s sure the Agency would not fault him the few additional minutes being late if he goes home to change.
The dorm building has never looked so inviting. Taking the stairs two at a time, he inserts his key into his lock with trembling hands and turns.
It does not give.
Akutagawa blinks.
He looks down at his hand, then the lock, then the number next to the door.
He’s in the right place. This, outside the Agency door key, is his only key.
He attempts to turn again, with a little more oomph behind the motion, but the lock remains steadfast.
Did the tussle from before bend the key in some way?
He brings it to eye-level, not noting any obvious dents in the metal. There’s still the window, but considering that his last escapade through said window when he had forgotten his key ended up with him in cuffs, several (non-critically) injured policemen, and an extremely angry Kunikida…
Well. He’d rather not to risk it.
He considers knocking on the other doors, but gives up on the notion instantly. Even if he could borrow clothes from others, Rashomon would protest. Much like Akutagawa himself, Rashomon is not a fan of sudden change; a temper tantrum at ill-fitting briefs does not a better day make.
Shoulders drooped and head hanging low, he walks with dragging steps to the agency building.
The ‘Out of Order’ sign on the elevator has got to be mocking him.
Slicing the elevator into confetti would not solve the problem, so, defeated, he trudges up all four stories.
He doesn’t bother fixing the hair plastered to his face or the uneven way his pants stick to his calves. He opens the door to the agency, stepping just barely into the threshold in an effort not to make a mess.
“I’m back,” he announces wearily. “Were the locks changed, by any – “
He doesn’t even have time to finish his sentence before a force bowls him over, his arms forced behind his back as his face kisses the floor.
A knee presses into his back, fingers gripping his wrists without an ounce of gentleness. He’s so flabbergasted even Rashomon hesitates, cautiously sliding out of his coat and hovering by the assailant, not quite sure what to do next.
“What are you doing here?” the voice belonging to his attacker asks.
Kunikida-san…?
He wriggles under his superior’s weight, attempting to twist his neck so he can meet his eyes.
“Kunikida-san, its – it’s me. Akutagawa. Ryuunosuke. Will you get off.”
His mentor’s eyes widen comically, fingers clasping harder over his wrists in direct opposition to Akutagawa’s request.
His eyebrows twitch.
What is this? Another ‘test?’
A scrape of a chair gets Akutagawa’s attention and bumbling footsteps, old-worn shoes and pants definitely too short for the owner’s height enter his field of vision.
Unless Junichiro has decided to significantly downgrade his wardrobe, he’s not quite sure who this new person is.
“Kunikida, er… why do you have Akutagawa pinned to the floor?”
Akutagawa’s blood runs cold.
He knows that voice.
“…And why is he so wet?”
The body atop of him shifts, his mentor’s harsh voice barking much too close to his ear to spare his pounding head.
“I’ve told Dazai a million times - if the two of you are going to be working together, you have to meet outside the agency. We can’t have citizens thinking we’re colluding with the Port Mafia! Their trust in us is shaky as it is!” he lectures the actual Mafia member standing just out of Akutagawa’s eyeline.
“We aren’t – wait, whoa!”
In one rapid movement, Rashomon wraps around Kunikida’s waist, dropping him as far as the room will let him and pushes Akutagawa back onto his feet to come face to face with him.
The White Reaper.
He doesn’t have to think.
Doesn’t have the luxury to.
Voices overlap, paper flies into the air before being turned into confetti. None of that matters.
All Akutagawa can see is the young mafioso, one of the most dangerous men in Yokohama, amid his Agency in plain sight, dancing in the office as if he belongs!
“Akutagawa! Cut it out!” he orders him, as if he’s got the right, dodging Rashomon’s blades a little too easily on dexterous tiger legs.
Another one of Rashomon’s tendrils strikes out and, effortlessly, the tiger grabs at it, jerking Akutagawa forward.
Surprised, he nearly loses his footing as he stumbles into the others’ space.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Despite the clear frustration written on the tiger boy’s face, there’s something in those polychromatic eyes that makes Akutagawa hesitate.
They’re brighter than he’s ever seen them, awash with a myriad of emotions he can’t hope to decipher, not all of which are entirely hateful.
If he didn’t know any better, the White Reaper is…
“Whoa, whoa, what’s all this? You start the party without me?”
Carnage, dead eyes, weeping bandages, black coat, Gin -
Akutagawa sees red.
No higher processing occurs in his head – he runs on pure animalistic instinct as he pushes the White Reaper out of his way and launches himself at the Man in Black. Snarling, he snaps his jaws open, teeth ready to rip into the his neck, bleed him out like the animal that he is.
Like the animal he’s always treated him as.
He screams, heart pounding. Rashomon lashes out, sharp and fatal –
Yet instead of skewering the Man in Black through his shriveled heart, Rashomon disappears entirely on contact. Momentum lost, he attempts to overpower the man taller physically, but before he can make a single move to scratch to claw to bite to bleed, familiar hands wrap around his arms and abdomen from behind and lock on tight.
He writhes, attempting to kick out from under the grip, but he knows he’s got no chance. The hands around him could splinter each bone in his body with merely a twitch. There’s no way out - not without hurting Kenji.
And hurting Kenji is unacceptable.
His younger co-worker holds him in place as the Man in Black saunters towards him, wearing a casual smile and raised eyebrows.
“What’s gotten into our rabid dog today?” he coos, voice patronizing.
“YOU BASTARD!” Akutagawa hisses, surging towards the other.
If only he’d get into biting distance, he’d know exactly what had gotten into him today.
The smirk on the Man in Black’s face might as well be an all-out laugh.
It all starts to make sense.
No one in the agency looking for him for the hours he must have been missing. The changed locks. The lack of recognition from his friends and coworkers of nearly a year.
The Port Mafia has infiltrated the Armed Detective Agency.
Had their entire chase the previous night been purely to lure him and Oda away?
Just so these bastards could somehow brainwash his co-workers and take over the Agency?!
Was the Coin Man a pawn of the Port Mafia all along?
His eyes widen, cold horror running down his spine.
Of course. Get rid of the man who can see into the future and the one whose ability can tear through the fabric of time itself and those bastards actually have a chance.
He stares right into the Man in Black’s eyes.
“What did you do with Oda?”
The Man in Black’s smirk dissolves in an instant. He visibly pales, the easy stance with which he taunted Akutagawa now ramrod straight. His gapes, wide eyes staring at him as if they’ve just come face to face with a ghost.
“…What did you just say?” the worlds fall shakily from the Man in Black’s mouth.
He takes a step back, almost cautious, two uncovered eyes trailing down his body as if for the first time, dissecting him layer by layer. It’s disgusting, invasive, humiliating -
“…You aren’t…” he starts, eyebrows furrowed.
The door to the infirmary busts open, a harried looking Doctor Yosano running into room, meat-cleaver hoisted over her shoulder.
“…I heard shouting up here. Is everything okay?”
If they got her too, then they’re finished. An immortal Port Mafia.
She’s Akutagawa’s last hope.
He leans forward, pleading to her with his eyes, hoping against hope that his words will get through her.
Somehow.
By some miracle.
She’s their doctor, isn’t she? Shouldn’t she be able to resist whatever manipulation the mafia had concocted?
“Yosano. They – I don’t know what they did. He’s the boss of the Port Mafia. He’s brought the White Reaper with him. They – they did something. They did something to Oda. You have to – “
Yosano tilts her head.
“…Who is Oda?” she asks.
Akutagawa fights the urge to vomit.
This is it.
In a single night, on a single mission, the years he’s spent clawing his way out of the person Hell he’s trapped himself into is gone.
He had tried.
God, had he tried.
To accept others. To depend on others. To stop killing, to work towards something, to learn who he is outside the beast within. To become something akin to good. To prove to his sister that he was more than that angry child blinded by revenge.
That he could be the brother she deserved.
She deserves.
Gin, Akutagawa thinks desperately, his sister’s pitying look flashing in his mind’s eye. You were right after all. I am truly the kind of person that should not have anyone important in my life. Everything I touch corrupts. I am sorry.
He had let himself get complacent. He had allowed the humanity in, allowed himself to crave friendship and comfort and belonging, and this is where it’s gotten him.
He was never meant for this.
Never meant to care or be cared for by others.
Look what he’s done.
Kenji, he thinks. The beat of the summer sun against their skin. Dirt under his fingernails. Laughter that sounds like spring. Greenery and life in what was once barren. This boy - the kind of person that makes one want to believe that there is goodness left in this rotten world. That rot is nothing more than the next step to blooming. I wish I could have shared those grubs with you. I wish I could have shown you that I truly had a good half to hold on to. I wish your kindness was not wasted. I am sorry.
Junichiro, he thinks. A boy as sharp as a knife’s edge, one who could easily kill but chooses only to carve flowers. The one who stood by his side, risked his life, took on his burden because he knows that family is everything and that family can be more than blood. Ensured that he was not alone, even in his foolishness, even in his cruelty, even in his mistakes. Used the word ‘hero’ and said that one day, somehow, it could apply to someone like him. I wish I could have saved Gin – been the brother to her that you are to Naomi. I wish they could have met. I wish I earned being Akutagawa-kun to you. I am sorry.
Kunikida, he thinks. The man who looked at him with even eyes, despite the blood on his hands and the rage in his heart, and told him that he is not evil. That he is still trying to become. That there is still room to become. A guiding hand not afraid or flustered by his abrasive nature – one that sees his strengths and evokes ones even Akutagawa did not know of. One with ideals and fire in his blood and gentle arms that wrap around his soiled body without fear, whispering the word ‘son.’ I am sorry. Turns out the person I am is a coward. Turns out you put your faith in nothing. I wish I had made you proud. I wish I was the man you believed I could become. I am sorry.
Oda, he thinks, and god, for the first time in his life, the backs of his eyes burn with something akin to tears. He made him believe in a future – how could he not, when the man could forsee it ever so clearly? Sakunosuke Oda – a man with guns for hands, fifteen children in his care, and long nights spent with his typewriter, creating beauty one word at a time. The man who was born as one thing, lived as one thing, and rejected destiny. The man he admires most in the world. His hero. You took a chance on me. Gave me a life I could be proud of living. Looked out for me, even when I was a fool. Even when I did not listen. You believed in me and for that, I would have gone to the ends of the earth for you. After everything, I couldn’t even save you. I wasn’t there for you. I let you down. God, Oda-san, I’m – I am…
Akutagawa’s eyes shoot open, the world sharper, brighter than ever before. Adrenaline courses through his veins, muscles clench, jaw cracks, nerves come to life.
I am…
For all they have done for him – the entire Agency has done for him – he will not allow the Port Mafia to take them.
Even if it’s at the cost of his life, even if it means that Gin will never remember him as anything other than a monster – he has to try. These people are more than him. These people are worth saving.
He refuses to roll over and die; he will not fall to the same hands that have sculpted him.
The Armed Detective Agency shall not regret taking in a rabid dog.
Wild as he is, he’s a protector. And he’s meant to protect.
“Yosano. Something’s wrong. Can you –“ a panicked voice warbles somewhere in the background.
He roars, body writhing, the hands around his wrists giving as his bones snap.
“On it.”
He has no need for his hands, no need for anything except Rashomon – Rashomon, surging from his coat, his pants, his shirt; a cacophony of whites, blacks and greys in dragon heads making up a veritable hydra, destroying all within its path.
And there’s arms around him, large and warm – voices raise and quiet, oscillating tones forming words that he simply doesn’t understand. Rashomon cuts at the arms that hold him, blood spraying onto Akutagawa’s face, soaking his clothes, dripping into his mouth, and the white in his vision blurs with reds but the hold does not lessen, and what little energy he’s had left drains from him in in rapid succession.
If only he had died in that forest four years ago before the Man in Black found him.
If only the Port Mafia shooters killed him instead of his friends.
If only he let starvation take him instead of taking Oda’s hand.
If only.
“Akutagawa, please!”
The tiger boy’s voice is like a siren song. The desperation within his tone tugs something within him, something beyond emotion or logic. Thoughts transcend into something metaphysical, intangible. He pulls on the thread, only inexplicably nearing the heat of the body pressed to him.
Blacks and whites. Lights and darks. Up and down.
He looks into those eyes, kaleidoscopic, equal parts yellow and purple, neither one or the other or both or neither.
He thinks of the coin, flipping in the air. Heads, tails. Tails, heads.
Fingertips graze against a thin neck, the spikes of an invisible collar nipping at sensitive skin. He hardly notices the sharpness of the needle piercing his own skin.
You’re in flux, too, he thinks deliriously, wanting nothing more than to wrap his finger’s around the other’s too-bare throat and squeeze.
Flick. A metallic ting. The sound of coin hitting flesh.
He fades with those eyes on him, a warmth within growing ever stronger.
A sensation he has no name for.
A sensation he has always known.
Behind his eyelids, he man’s words ring clear:
Can you not feel it?