The Wild Geese || DAZAI OSAMU/CHUUYA NAKAHARA

[三] DANCE OF CARNAGE, SOLO.

Now that the moon had fully risen and shone straight into your eyes, penetrating the dusty clouds unfurling across the raven sky, you once again rise from the dappled shadows speckled across the pavement. In your hand: a heavy, thick Maxim 9 pistol burning against the flesh of your palm, finger curved gently over the trigger with your eyes blazing with hellfire. You brood over the city with a silence and lethality of a weeping angel; Azrael with its gentle hand, leading those shot by her bullets into the afterlife, back into the dark, dark womb of the earth.

They would have to fight through their way out from your perdition.

A burst of light from the pistol flashes across your face. A gasp from the weapon, drilling through the layers of the dark night before it cracks opens the shell of a skull with a muffled smack. And at last, the moonlight fades into black with the clouds, ensconcing you in the bloody silence of your cruel deed; at last, the orange rim of your ability fizzles into (e/c) when your shoulders loosen up, a drawn-out sigh from the undulating pressure finally unraveling. You close your eyes and sigh, cracking out the kinks of your neck and slipping the gun into your holster. You swing a coat around your shoulders, adjusting your shoulders so that the thick bulletproof vest underneath aligned perfectly with your torso.

Your earring on your right ear, a gleaming ceramic razor, brushed against your cheek like a tender forbidden kiss with every step you took.

"'S done." You find yourself snarling at a well-dressed man sitting on his luxurious chair, rich wine velvet glittering under the dim light of his office. The chandelier twinkling behind your body seemed to create a sudden transformation series, with each picture glowing with an unnatural, brilliant light with every rise and fall of your chest. He rubs his hands together.

"Well done, (Last name) (first name)," he says, a lecherous gleam to his eyes as he unlaces his hands. His voice was muffled by a nightclub above. You supposed that this was all just a disguise for a money-laundering scheme; or worse yet, a pimping, sex trafficking business. "Mori Ougai was right in recommending you as one of his strongest assets."

"Former, asset," you say. A subtle tremble in your voice that you muffle by readjusting your pistol into your holster. "I don't work for him anymore."

"How far can you strain the leash, my dear one?" He says playfully. You don't reciprocate his humor.

"Until it snaps," You snap. "Quit the fuckin' chattering; where's the money?"

"At-ta-ta," He tuts. "You cut off my segment. Knowing you were a former asset of Mori, I'd be paying you handsomely," You side eye when you can hear the door opening, the sound of soles against the polished floor echoing. "Alas, my intelligence tells me you've been reconciling with the very organization Mori is attempting to quash."

"Organisati—You mean the Armed Agency?" You scoff. "You're kidding—they called me in for an interrogation."

"Still," His smirk suddenly drops. Your ears prick at the noise of guns being drawn. "We are very thorough."

You spin with your leg high in the air and drive your heel straight into a head of a bodyguard, his sunglasses flung off his face. His gun drops to the floor. A cry derived far from anger than pain, you headbutt the other one attempting to manhandle you into submission. Shattering his nose, he staggers back with a hand to his face, unable to comprehend you pulling a gun on him straight to the head. You quickly unclip the dangling jewelry of your earring, the tiny, ceramic razor, slashing the neck of another man preparing to sock you in the jaw. Hot blood splashes onto your face: severed the artery.

"You fucking bitch!" Another barrels straight into your stomach, out of the door, and sends you both crashing onto the ground. Your eyes burn with ineffable rage, akin to the primal violence of a wildcat incomprehensible to human civility. You grit your teeth and slash his nape wide open, thrusting your fingers into the open wound and wincing at the hot wave of red drenching your shirt. You rip open the laceration with bare hands. Kicking him off, you make a run for it before—