The Untold Origins of The Port Mafia

☽ The Hitman's Dream ☾

Dazai Osamu has never run faster in his life.

As soon as the car he commandeered pulls into the dead end he starts full out sprinting. The large warehouse is easy to spot. It looks just like any other, save for the blue and red glows coming from inside. Flawless and Strait is the Gate locked in battle.

Slowing himself to a silent stop, Dazai creeps along the edge, picking the simple padlock on the side door. In seconds, he's in. The men stand, face to face, guns drawn.

Oda dodges and in three seconds Gide fires. Oda does the same, and just like him, Gide dodges. Matching each other's movements. Pushing and pulling like magnets.

'At this rate it's a battle of stamina. It can't go on forever, eventually they'll begin to tire, one of them will be too slow and then . . .'

Dazai doesn't want to think about that, and doesn't want to imagine his dear friend lying bloody on the ground. So he doesn't think. He acts. He fires his gun. The bullet finds its mark in Gide's back causing blood to spurt like fireworks from his mouth, spill over his lips, down his chin, and onto the concrete floor.

There's an old phrase by an American author, Ralph Waldo Emerson. "When you strike at a king, you must kill him." Marksmanship has never been Dazai's strong suit, and having only one eye in use doesn't help. Gide isn't dead yet.

In his final act, Gide raises his arm weakly, but it's just enough. Both men pull their guns at the same time. They pull the trigger, the sound echoing through the empty space. A sonic boom. Gide falls to the ground . . . so does Oda.

The red puddle grows, resembling a fallen rose, the shreds of a torn kimono, as it creeps across the ground.

Dazai's eyes widen, round like the wound in Oda's chest. He runs to him, falling on his knees. "Odasaku!"

"I'm here Dazai. Thank you for coming to save me." he says, voice weak.

"Of course. Let's go back." Dazai grabs his older friend's hand, seeming to ignore the bleeding wound. He's in denial, refuses to think that he won't make it. He has too. If he doesn't, nothing will be the same again. "Yosano will heal you. I'll get you to Yosano. She'll heal you. You'll be good as new."

"Da . . . zai, I . . . can't."

"Yes, you can."

At this moment Dazai has never been more grateful for Nakahara Chuuya. If not for his endless competitions with his chibi in everything from martial arts to just plain running, if it wasn't for the drive to be the better one, the stronger one, then he'd never have been able to lift Oda.

He takes back what he said before. The way here was barely running. Nothing compared to now. He runs until his chest hurts and he's out of breath, and even with his feet aching and his head pounding.

'The poor civilians will have gone by now and taken their car with them. Mori could have a car here in minutes, but I don't trust him. No car or bus will take me. I need Chuuya. I need . . . my phone! I left it! I can't believe I . . .'

Where the thin alleys turn back into full road, a car waits. A shining, dark green jeep with painted orange flames and no top, engine still on. A boy with hair like the flames on his car sits in the driver's seat.

"Get in!"

Dazai doesn't need to be told twice. He hops in and lets his partner use his ability to lift Oda into the back.

"How did you . . .?"

Chuuya gives a tense eyeroll, "You really think you're the only smart one around here, don't you."