Bloodied Dahlias | Miya Osamu

[VII] Midnight Drive

Osamu's day had not been great, to say the least.

Between being dragged half-awake out of bed (in the most literal sense), having only been given enough time to shrug over the black t-shirt that had been hanging over his chair, barely grabbing his socks — mismatched, unfortunately — and having to use up his gas in his car to run errands that were, by all means, not his, Osamu could confidently say that this made for one of the most annoying days in his cover life. He grumbled underneath his breath as he stalked down the hallway, his heels forcefully digging deep into the carpeted flooring with his each and every stride.

You know what? Scratch that. Say it for what it is. Osamu's day had been absolutely dreadful.

His phone buzzed in his pocket — Osamu's cue for another sigh heaved out from the depths of his chest. He paused in his steps, pulling his phone out from his pocket, scowling at the incoming notification that was now floating dead center on his lock screen.

DINNER AT 5PM TOMORROW?
- MOM

Just like everything else in his present, the text message was but one of many mere props in the play known as Miyano Osamu's life. His mother had not been the one who had texted him — heck, his mother hadn't even been given his current cell number for god's sake. No contact with his previous life at all; his very livelihood a mystery and his existence an unmarked trace in the world. It killed him, really. It killed him every time that a clever quip to aim at his twin popped up in his mind and he wasn't able to share it with his brother; it killed him every time the floral arrangements in Tsubasa's headquarters had caught his eye and had reminded him of his mother whom had tended to their gardens back home; and it killed him every time the memories of his father crept up from the crypt in his mind in the odd moments of silence he found alone late at night with his loved ones so far out of arm's reach.

For all the glory and heroism that the movies had made it out to be, being a spy was simply the worst end of the deal, ever.

SOUNDS GREAT MOM. SEE YOU AT 5.

He thumbed in the message into his phone, staring momentarily at the screen before hitting the button to send the text. He blinked, his phone slipping back into his pocket, and returned to a brisk stride.

How would his mother react if she ever found out he was referring to someone else as mom? Not well, he could only presume. Not when even he felt a bit of guilt every time he had to refer to the recipient of his text as his mother. It felt wrong — dirty, even — to address anyone else as such. A necessary lie for the safety of everyone involved, but not one that he enjoyed partaking in one bit.

Home — he missed home, he decided. He missed being himself, more specifically. He missed the quiet calm of his surroundings as he aimed his rifle at his target, his vision narrowed down to what the scope allowed him to see. The silence that allowed him to hear his own heartbeat, the thin line between the sane and the insane as the sole voice in his mind amplified. A job well done that would lend him a week's worth of vacation that he would spend in the repair shop, his hands mindlessly tinkering with the tools as he set to work fixing whatever scrap car he could get his hands on. Routine, repetition, ritual.

He glanced out the blackened windows lining the hallway from floor to ceiling, the bright lights of the city's nightlife twinkling back at him, the outline of his reflection staring back mockingly.

Miyano's life was vastly different from his own by all accounts. Hobbies and pastimes could be the same, and perhaps the common denominator was that his sharpshooting was still an asset in his job, but everything else was different. It had to be, for both the sake of his cover and his mission. Running errands for others, training new recruits, interrogations, meetings...socializing. Osamu scowled at the thought. Unlike a sniper, Miyano's job had sent him running around the city on the daily and interacting with the living on the daily. There existed no remnant of the comforting silence he had once taken for granted in his old life — no opportunity for him to hit pause and step on the brakes to catch his breath after a grueling, long day.