Molly's Fics Cause she Refuses to Read Them on Ao3

The Kid in the Dark

There had been several disappearances in Yokohama, all ability users, all relatively powerful. Something was brewing, and The Armed Detective Agency wasn't about to allow it to boil over. Finding their base had been easy, recruiting the Port Mafia for help had been even easier. Finding the fourteen dead ability users hung up like trophies, displayed in glass cases like museum exhibits had not been easy. They seemed to be trying to prevent the decaying process, preserving the bodies as best as they could, leaving a macabre display of far too lively faces. They looked asleep, just resting, or they would've if it weren't for the injuries. Blood coated the bottom of their cases, the newest body still slowly dripping gore onto the floor below him. It smelled of death, death and decay, a sickening sight.

Releasing the corpses and setting them aside was a grueling task, but not as grueling as finding out why the hell they were kept there. They were dead, they couldn't help them, perhaps they were trying to sell body parts? If that were the case then why go after ability users? And why kill them immediately and leave them there? The questions echoed through the hall of death, a silent inquiry between the detectives and mafia members as they silently bagged the bodies. They would carry them home, to a grave, to their loved ones, to be properly mourned and given the goodbye they deserved.

The room was dark, seemingly empty apart from the glass cages the dead had been encased in. But as they left, Dazai could feel something was off, something was wrong. He let the rest leave, taking the bodies with them and he listened. He sat in the silence, the smell of blood and chemicals wafting through the air in a nauseating combination. He stood there as the footsteps faded and the light of the flashlights disappeared. And then he heard it. It was faint, and muffled, as if someone was trying to hold it back, but it was there, he heard it. A sob.

"I know you're there, come out," Dazai called into the darkness, and this time the sob wasn't muffled. It was a desperate, pained sound that pierced straight through his heart, it was broken, and so, so full of fear.

When messy blond curls and bright green eyes peeked out from the dark corner of the room, his breath caught in his throat. It was a child, a young, young child, no older than five, her big emerald eyes filled to the brim with tears. Her wrists were bruised, fingerprints indented into her delicate skin. There was a cut across her cheek, dried blood staining her pale body, wearing only a measly white gown, far too large for her small frame. She seemed terrified, and as he looked down at her, something strange swelled in his chest.

"Hey... hey it's okay," he soothed, crouching down right where he was, making himself smaller. The girl took a shaky step back, stumbling over her feet and falling back, hitting the ground with a quiet thud, her eyes watering more. "I won't hurt you, I promise. My name is Dazai, I'm a detective," his voice was calm, the same sort of voice he used when Chuuya was having an episode, a soft, gentle, steady sort of voice.

"Pinky promise...?" The girl's voice was so soft he could barely hear it, a scared little whimper in the dark.

"Pinky promise," he repeated.

The young girl took tentative steps forward, stumbling over her own two feet as she shuffled towards him, her little mouth set in a frown that seemed to waver at the corners, as if she were holding back, holding back those heart-wrenching sobs. She stepped up to him, glancing up into his eyes, as if searching for something in them, some sort of safety, some sort of comfort. He wasn't sure how to give her that, how to provide this young, scared child with the protection she needed. Apparently he didn't need to know how, he just needed to be. Her tiny face scrunched up, tears slipping down her cheeks, making tracks through the grime, and suddenly she was sobbing and rushing towards him and oh god he couldn't say no.

Arms wrapped around the child, pulling her against his chest with as much care as he could muster, a hand burying into her tangled mess of curls while the other scooped her up. He wasn't thinking, he didn't need to think, he just needed to hold her. The girl wailed, a broken, terrified sound, far too loud for her tiny lungs. Her little hands found his coat, grabbing the fabric between tiny fingers, clinging onto it with a desperation a child should not have.