The Wild Geese || DAZAI OSAMU/CHUUYA NAKAHARA

[二十四] VODKA, ON THE ROCKS.

You quickly and efficiently slide through the corridors and hallways of the Port Mafia HQ, having memorised every crevice of it by muscle memory. It was embedded in you; it was in you. The body flops around limply over your shoulder like a freshly caught fish, seemingly regaining life and vigour the more you jostled it. But you knew he was dead. And that his death was partially your fault.

If you had died and become unsuccessful like the others, then it would be the successful one whose fault it was. And it was easy to place fault; it made the world a bad/good place, with each polarity offering safe haven. But it wasn't always that simple; there were grey areas that offered conflict, and by proxy, a plot. Entertainment.

You see ginger hair in your peripherals. You curse under your breath and try not to look conspicuous—which was already hard enough with a literal corpse over your shoulder.

"Hey, (last name)," Chuuya greets. His eyes flicker to the body over your shoulder. "Are you busy with something?"

You jostle the body with a little shift. "Kinda. What do you want?"

"Nothing, just wondering if you could take up on my bar offer," He says, still suspiciously eyeing the body. "Who is that?" He blurts out.

You sigh, look him straight in the eyes, and easily lie. "One of the intruders. Caught him sneaking around. Now I'm disposing him."

"I never thought you would clean up after yourself," Chuuya comments, which makes a vein pop against your temple as you grind your molars.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Nothing much," He shrugs. "Look, you have my number. Just call me when you're done."

"Yeah, for sure," You pass him and turn a corner, your shoulders sagging. You grit your teeth before breaking into a full sprint towards the exit. The body shakes in your grip as you do, sunlight spilling over your head. You run towards your car and open the trunk, toss the body in, and slam it with full force. You then get in the driver's seat and pull out your phone.

You call Dazai.

"Hello?" A melodic voice fills your ear.

"Yo," You casually greet, out of breath. "Look, I got Kasumi's lil brother. Where do I drop him off at Suribachi?"

He pauses. "Meet you there. We'll go together."

—

The drive to Suribachi city is accompanied by the occasional thumps and bumps of the corpse in your trunk. You drive carefully this time, afraid that the collateral damage of your suicidal driving would cause the body to fray apart like a decade old carpet. You pull up to the foot-paved paths of Suribachi, the cone of descent and slums and stray dogs staring up at you.

You were no stranger to the slums; you've had your fair share of experience when it came to poverty. You were broke when you had defected: both financially and emotionally. You took cover in one of the many abandoned (their former owners dead) huts, and lived off of scraps of bread like a pigeon. You then begin to fully reignite the skills you have gained from Mori, going even farther underground to become a contract killer. And there you carved out your own name. (last name), notorious for never missing a shot. Sheer fuckin' will and determination.

So Suribachi was familiar to you. Orphans stared at you as you stared back at them, their stomachs swollen from extreme starvation. Their eyes are sunken and dull, having seen too much and too little, their skulls threatening to emerge from the thin cover of facial skin. Their ribs were like corrugated accordions, and they played the noise of a hungry stomach when fingers strung over them.