PIED PIPER | dazai osamu

0: shattering, the music begins.

It all starts with the melodic tune of a reed pipe.

Two, precisely.

The melody, weighed by the dead language that lingered in the margins of the sound, resonated in the damp stone walls of the alleyway, gleaming as though they had been perspiring in cold terror.

A minuscule pause in your playing is barely noticed. The wind swoops in to fill in the gaps like a finger to the rim of a glass—sharp; ringing; hollow; akin to the noise of glass on the verge of shattering when it falls.

Sitting just before the maw of the dark path, hollowed by harsh winds and swarming with disease, a young girl by the name of (First name) plays dual reed pipes. It is a replica of the Sumerian Silver Pipes of Ur from the ancient civilisation of Babylon. A haunting veil of unease rests in the air: an intangible barrier, as though you were one of the Babylonians rather than...rather than...rather than the mafia members.

Those who considered themselves family to you. Did you have a say in that?

The men watch in silence as your music washes over them. It is euphoric; it almost felt wrong to listen. It felt like a giant hand pulling two snakes out of the water: Two separate heads, seething with a lustful ecstasy bobbling on the iridescent swells, where two scaled bodies below are coiled with each other—the question was when did one snake end and the other start? Where one slides the other follows, where one crosses the other intertwines. Together, they are one.

Your eyes are hooded as fingers glide over the holes. Your music will never betray you in the way people do.

Like human, like beast: Hundreds, thousands, ten thousand rats scuttle from the cracks and gaps of buildings, whiskers and beady eyes twitching under the harsh moonlight. Like the snakes, they scatter, regroup, but then remain stagnant on their hind legs, bewitched by the juddering music flowing from the girl.

The music dips, then pitches, and then—

"Stop."

A man's voice halts the spell. Even when the music has stopped, the rats remain still. A thin layer of glass is suspended in the air; wavering, quivering, but never breaking, caused by the voice trapped in the instruments in your hands.

Silence.

There is a membrane that keeps its victims in an intoxicated haze. Their paws, pink and tiny, are dirty; their teeth, yellow and sharp, are devastating. The Port Mafia knows when to use violence, and in this case, they will pull out the dirty tricks to wage biological warfare on their enemies in the West.

You are also quiet.

"Well done." The man places his hands on the small of your back, gloved fingers cold through the thin layer of your clothes. His trench coat brushes over your cheek when he then steps forwards.

His name is Mori. You don't know his first name. He doesn't tell you anything other than the fact that he is the man you are meant to be listening to. The Boss is sick and doesn't ask for you anymore.

You let the men take you back into your cell of a cage, limp and helpless, with the instruments delicately placed in gold-lacquer suitcases with velvet paddings.

Even they were valued more than you were.

Your name is...Your name is...You're sure your name is (last name) (first name). And you've been here for as long as you can remember.

—

A/N:

Hello, just a quick heads up that this story's going to get kind of dark later. I'm going to depict Dazai as overly manipulative and obsessive in this story. Triggers are: identity crises, blood (gore), murder, sacrilege of corpses, questionable behaviour, obsessive behaviour, god complex. If you are uncomfortable with this sort of content, I hope that I can put a sufficient warning in each chapter so you can skip them.

Thank you for reading.