The Wild Geese || DAZAI OSAMU/CHUUYA NAKAHARA

[二] DEVIL'S LANGUAGE, CONCEALING.

You wake up sticky and disheveled, legs in bondage with the sheets while the alarm clock on the nightstand screamed. A vase filled with wilting, browning flowers, their former lustrous glory a long forgotten history. An ashtray. Your phone, and one-half of a pair of AirPods. You're not sure where the other one went; though when you prop yourself up with an elbow to your pillow, you're met with a tiny little crunch.

"Oh fuck."

Like a shittier version of a tooth fairy, you have to swipe the crushed bits of an airpod off your bed and onto the floor.

You yank on the front of your hoodie when it seems to press against your throat. Sliding out of bed, you toss a coffee capsule into its slot, drumming your fingers on the counter.

You are (last name) (first name): a young, jaded woman in her mid-twenties, currently sipping on a mug of coffee, looking awful, on the edge, but still alive and kicking.

You turn on the news on the living room TV and collapse onto the cracked, scratched black sofa. A balding man sitting next to a square of carnage projected next to him: a still-screen of the second a bullet had entered a victim's head, the spittle of blood fanning out like fog.

Something to do with another assassination in broad daylight.

You tongue the inside of your cheek, mouth agape before switching it off. Why bother watching something that only reinforced your misery in this reality?

"Please excuse us!"

A voice, muffled by the door, sounds through outside your flat. You stare at the door before another knock comes through.

When you're greeted by two men by your front door in the early hours of the morning, your reaction isn't something one would consider "joy".

Two men stand outside your door through the fisheye peephole. You shuffle on your slippers before clicking it open, wearily eyeing at them through the crack.

"Who're you?" You ask. The white-haired one quickly fumbles for his wallet, yanking out a white card that showed:

ATSUSHI NAKAJIMA: OFFICIAL MEMBER OF THE ARMED DETECTIVE AGENCY. GOVERNMENT-APPROVED ABILITY USER ORGANIZATION.

You turn to the brown-haired one. He smiles, saying, "I forgot my wallet."

You open the door wider anyways. Government officials were as persistent as mosquitos anyways. Might as well get them over and done with.

"What? Another noise complaint? Some sorta weird shenanigans happening on the block?" You down the rest of your coffee mug. "Wasn't me, promise."

"Wait, what do you mean anoth—I mean, no, actually," The white-haired one, introducing himself as Atsushi Nakajima, shakes his head. "There was...Just, the Agency thinks there's some suspicion to your character and we want you in for an interview."

"Interrogation, more like," You hoarsely chuckle, taking in the look of guilt that flashed in Atsushi's face before lighting a cigarette. He waves the smoke away from him when you let it haze out of your mouth.

"Mah~ Isn't it too early for a cigarette?" The brown-haired one sang. You raise an eyebrow at him, pull it out of your mouth to cradle it between your fingers before snorting. "Also, smoking? Not going to do you a favor anytime soon."

"What, Yokohama's pretty boy's gonna give me a pep talk about how smoking's bad?" You let another mouthful of smoke escape your mouth, waving a hand to guide it past them. Dazai smiles, though it doesn't reach his eyes.

"No, as in it's not going to do your character a favor during the interview."

You stare at him.

"You're conducting the interview here right now?" You quickly take another inhale, quirking an eyebrow. A streak of sunlight strikes Dazai's face as he puts his hands in his pocket, waving off the stray wisps of smoke that blurred his vision.