The Worst Day in the Life of Makoto Neagi

Section Six

"O-Oh god..." Makoto muttered, his face twisting in fear and nervousness.
"Don't worry," the old man said, pointing to the army knife under the seat beside him. "He's unarmed!"
The man was right⁠—that was the knife Jutarou had been holding earlier. Which meant he was, in fact, unarmed. But that didn't change a thing; Makoto was just as unarmed. Assuming he would be fine simply because neither of them had a weapon was ridiculous. If the two of them ended up brawling, Makoto was at a clear disadvantage physically⁠—a fact he knew all too well.
Don't worry? How exactly am I supposed to do that? Makoto complained at the old man in his mind. But as he cursed, he climbed to his feet and headed toward the door. He was practically in a frenzy by that point, his body moving all on its own without any concern for the consequences. How else could he have not succumbed to such an outrageous chain reaction of misfortune, accepting it for what it was?
I don't care what happens anymore! Makoto thought and leapt down the stairs toward the door⁠—slamming face first into someone and rebounding backwards, landing hard on one of the steps. "Owowowowow..." he muttered, then lifted his head to figure out what in the world had just happened. There, he saw a man in a white helmet and a navy blue uniform on the ground, leaning back against the guardrail.
Makoto recognized that uniform⁠—the man was a mailman. The mailman had seen the bus suddenly rush forward, then come to an equally sudden stop, so he had decided to see if something was wrong. When he tried to board the bus, he collided with Makoto.
"S-Something didn't seem right," the mailman said, rubbing his neck. He must have hit his head on the guardrail when Makoto bumped into him. He was wearing a helmet, so he had avoided any serious injury, but his neck appeared to be in some pain. "So, is there some kind of problem?"
"U-Um, uh..." As Makoto debated whether he should explain what was going on or ask the mailman if he was all right⁠—
"Damn, am I lucky," came another voice. Makoto turned his head toward the source of the voice, and there he saw Jutarou Akafuku mounting the mailman's motorbike, which had been left beside the guardrail a short distance away. "I make these intricate plans because I hate random chance screwing things up, but still I end up relying on it," he said, calmly gripping the handlebars of the bright red mailbike. "Well, at least my luck is good, I guess."
His luck was good indeed. Because the postman had noticed the bus acting strangely, and because he had crashed into Makoto, Jutarou had acquired an escape vehicle.
"Oh, and that goes for you just as much as it does me, boy," Jutarou said to Makoto.
"Huh?"
"If I were to get arrested because of you, boy, that's a grudge I would never let go of." While Jutarou's voice sounded somewhat self-defeating, his face bore an expression of pure disdain. His expression would send a shiver up anyone's spine⁠—he looked like a starving wild dog that had finally found some prey.
Makoto couldn't move his body an inch⁠—neither to run nor to fight. He just stood there, frozen in place⁠—the prey about to be devoured.
Seeing that, Jutarou chuckled to himself. As someone who tried his hardest to minimize external influences on his plans, he would never normally make a threat like that. But in this case, he couldn't help himself. He had to get some form of payback⁠—as insignificant as it may be⁠—on the intractable child standing before him. The boy who threw wrench after wrench into Jutarou's carefully constructed plans⁠—and not even intentionally. Purely by luck. Jutarou would not stand for that. And so he threatened the boy, hoping to shake him up⁠—if just a little.
Of course, the threat was empty. Jutarou was unlikely to ever run into the boy again. Given that the boy knew he was a thief, crossing paths with him would cause nothing but trouble, and Jutarou had no interest whatsoever in being dragged through the mud by misfortune ever again. While his good luck may have come out on top this time, the last thing he wanted to do was try his luck a second time.
Taken another way, it could be said that Jutarou was afraid of Makoto's misfortune, but the thought never crossed his mind⁠—or, rather, he endeavored to prevent it from doing so.
Vroooooooooooooooom.
Without bothering to say goodbye, Jutarou sped off on the red motorbike. He'd ridden motorbikes in the past, but this was, of course, his first time on a mailbike. The difference, he discovered, was insignificant. The only real problem was that it stood out. He considered stealing the postman's uniform, but he didn't have time for that. His number one priority was getting away. Once he had put some distance between himself and the people on the bus, then he could worry about acquiring a less conspicuous means of transportation.
"H-Hey! Stop!" the mailman shouted, running after the speeding bike. The pain in his neck seemed to have vanished.
Makoto had managed to step off the bus, but that was as far as he got. He stood on the street, watching the scene unfold in silence. All he could think about was that he wanted nothing more to do with any of this. He didn't necessarily want Jutarou to escape, he just couldn't think of any reason he needed to continue to be involved in the situation. At worst, Jutarou would get caught and hold a grudge against him.
Compared to what might happen if he did keep chasing after Jutarou, Makoto thought that was the best course of action. That was the perfectly normal conclusion his abnormally average high-school mind reached. He was no hero, just a regular high-school boy⁠—or at least he was in that moment.
Makoto Naegi wanted nothing more than for the entire incident to tie itself up somewhere he wasn't. Which is why he just stood there as Jutarou sped away.
It's all over, he thought, letting out a heavy sigh. Things can go back to normal now. My boring, peaceful everyday life. The tension in his muscles slowly began to release⁠—and just seconds later, he bore witness to something he could hardly believe.
Out of nowhere, Jutarou's stolen motorbike flipped over.
Huh? What?
Before his mind had time to process what he was seeing, an intense roar filled the air⁠—the sound of an explosion. Makoto trembled, and then braced himself. His eyes were partly blocked by his own hands, but he could still see the overturned mailbike spewing black smoke and orange flames.
What? What? What?
Things were making less and less sense. He stood there, stupefied, staring at the blaze.
"N-No!" shouted the mailman, bringing Makoto back to his senses. The mailman rushed over toward the burning motorbike, and that was when Makoto finally realized that what he was seeing was actually happening.
He gulped, then muttered inaudibly, "What the..." As if the flames had their own gravity, Makoto was drawn to the wreckage. He stumbled forward along the street. A few uncertain steps later, his foot collided with something.
A burst aluminum can rattled across the asphalt. The can was folded inward, as though it had been stepped on. There were skid marks on the road near the crushed can.
"...Ah."
Memories came flooding back to him. The ripped plastic grocery bags. The scattered drinks. The fact that he hadn't managed to gather everything he had lost.
And then it clicked.
The drink cans he dropped⁠—at least one of them rolled out into the road, which he never ended up retrieving. Jutarou, in his attempt to escape, ran over the can with the motorbike and lost his balance.
In other words, the catastrophe unfolding before him was, yet again, the result of Makoto's bad luck. Just moments earlier, he had prayed he would have nothing more to do with the situation. And who knew, perhaps it had happened precisely because he had made that wish.
The number of coincidences that had been necessary to reach this point seemed almost fantastical. But that hadn't stopped it from happening. As unrealistic as it felt, it was, in fact, reality. How "believable" it was didn't matter⁠—all that meant was that Makoto Naegi's misfortune was strong enough to make it happen.
Jutarou lay unconscious on the ground a short distance from Makoto. At a glance, he didn't appear to be badly injured⁠—physically, at least. Emotionally, well, that was another story. He had most likely suffered a nearly fatal blow to his pride. The incident taught him a painful lesson: that no plan⁠—no matter how intricately constructed⁠—was any match for luck.
Jutarou Akafuku failed for one reason, and one reason only: Makoto Naegi's bad luck was more powerful than his own good luck. Up against Makoto's preposterously bad luck, Jutarou's carefully laid plans were of no use. As desperately as he tried to eliminate chance as a factor, it was all in vain. No amount of hard work or raw talent was enough to overcome such an enormous, overwhelming degree of misfortune.
Everything he had believed up to that point had probably come crumbling down. When he finally woke up, he would probably do so with a renewed fear of luck. Moving forward, he would have to look at things differently⁠—not only on jobs, but in his everyday life as well.