𝙵𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚎 | 𝙱𝚂𝙳 𝙵𝚊𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚌

Six

The port is alive.

Workers and pedestrians alike, voices calling out to one another. Boots stomping, breaths heaving. The beep and whir of vehicles, machinery, of wooden crates hitting the ground. The rumbling of boats pulling away from shore, their cargo freshly released.

And, towering over it all, the sound of water both crashing and caressing, spilling onto the concrete, the decks, washing and dragging and ceaselessly moving. 

The port is thriving, constantly moving, buzzing with activity. In many ways, it is much like the ocean it resides by.

"Do you see him?" Kenji questions, hovering to Mizuki's right. She steals a glance at the boy, noting that he stands on the tips of his toes, straining for a glimpse beyond the crowd. 

"No, I don't." Mizuki doesn't mention the old man sitting on the dock, mere feet beyond Kenji, slipping in and out of view as ink curls over his shoes, as outlines flit by. She feigns confidence, ignoring the tremor in her voice. "Would you like to check the CY?"

Kenji runs a hand through his hair, mussing it. Sweat lines his forehead, shines his nose. He doesn't notice her hesitation. "The yard doesn't seem like a bad start."

"Lovely -- lead the way," Mizuki urges, tapping her cane impatiently against the cement. She'd need the others to take the investigation from here -- unfortunately, her observation skills didn't go far beyond her ability. 

Kenji strides forward, edging to the left, shifting against the flow of traffic. They travel shoulder to shoulder against those around them -- awkwardly navigating, shuffling between bodies, murmuring apologies -- bumping into citizens both young and old. The men follow closely behind: Dazai, whose attention is upon the shore, and Kunikida, who walks with a fervor, cursing when he runs into those around him. 

Although it's more discreet to walk through the crowd, fighting against the tide takes more time than the Agency can afford. Mizuki signals to go further left, away from the pedestrians, the crowds, into the world of laborers and crates. Their answers would lie there, amongst the working force -- those who knew this landscape like the back of their hand, who treated the coast as their playground.

It takes some effort, but Mizuki's group manages to slip out of the crowd, escaping the seaside. They slide between containers, the clamor of life flowing farther and farther away, transitioning into a labyrinth of crates, cranes and contraptions. Noises fade into the distance, replaced by the familiar tap of shoes on concrete. It's remarkably quiet.

As they go, Kenji raises his hand, indicating where the containers block Mizuki's path. Their walkway is pressed between the stacks, as far away from the public eye as possible. 

Still, workers slip out from around the crates, their presences made known from the thump of their boots against the pavement, their gruff hellos, the metallic clank  of their toolboxes as they stride by. 

The journey drags on. Mizuki doesn't speak -- neither do her companions. Sweat beads on her forehead in the summer heat, slithers down her cheekbones. While the warmth was nearly insufferable, at least she had her companions.

Mizuki would usually stay away from places like these -- it was oddly easy to get lost at a port. While she could always memorize streets, shops, or even where each bus stop lay, the packages here were shuffled daily. The crates were always moving, always being unloaded, always swapping. They created a new labyrinth every hour. It was nearly impossible to keep track of -- even if you were a good navigator.

While Mizuki knew her cardinal directions, it was difficult to balance where she was, count her steps, and avoid the containers, all without a companion by her side. Thus, she rarely went to the docks without a sighted person.