Revised: 7/24/17
It wasn't so much that I was afraid of the place itself,
but I was afraid of the creatures who masqueraded as people.
Chapter 01: What had to be done
Rush. Nothing felt more incredible than the pleasant sensation of adrenaline in her veins.
Sun on her face, wind in her hair, the growl of an engine, as she steered her motorbike, zipping on the road, moving past those cold-shelled, lagging cars and railroad terminals with cool ease. She liked it—no, she loved it. And maybe, carelessly so as she unashamedly drove past the traffic jam, boasting each vehicle of her mobility and acceleration.
Her job had been simple enough; delivering packages and whatnot. Courier life hadn't been the first occupation she particularly considered at first nor was it the most orthodox of jobs to be in, but as long as the salary was enough to have her pay her rent monthly it was worth the effort. Besides, she liked the rush that her motorbike always gave her.
But perhaps, the reason why she was so fond of her current livelihood was that it was completely mundane.
She finally stepped on the brake, maneuvering her motorbike at a nearby parking lot. Her day had been like a routine of sorts—ejecting of keys, unpacking a package, and followed by the typical polite exchanges, signing of receipts, and off she went.
The package was particularly smaller than the last one, considering that size had been best for either clothing or accessory. After all, the customer had been a woman. An office clerk, she thought, judging from the towering edifice and the sophisticated air teeming about. The moment she entered she had begun to accomplish her ministrations, just as simple as dusting off her leather jacket after a ride.
It was a bit more gratifying when she exited from the building. She disliked the stuffiness of offices. As much as she would gladly take her leave, it was beyond her expectations to spot a distant figure in that said building. On its roof. What had drawn her for the most part was that the figure was not just a random post or some sort of object flung on the railing. It was a man. Now, that wasn't right.
Of course, it was none of her business and neither did she have some sliver of compassion for strangers she barely met, even more so when she had just seen. Though what made her charge herself back into the building and make up some sort of excuse that she had forgotten addressing another receipt for signage was because of the fact that she opposed suicide. Even if she had to drag the reckless man back, she would rather have it personally done than witness all the senseless tragedy itself.
Suicide was an insult. A middle finger for the hardworking and the regretting. Tossing life aside because of some flimsy excuse that reality had been unbearably overwhelming was something she didn't take lightly just as most of the masses did. She could have just told one of the guards or at least one of their clerks of her recent sighting, but the attention could further goad him to kill himself or either way it could be too late. Police often came belatedly. In her case, she was certainly not in the position to meddle in some stranger's dilemma and she knew her boundaries though it had been better talking some sense to one.
It amazed her, really. How no one had seen him yet, grasping the railings, gandering below in silent rumination. Like the world's just on its knees. The gale was strong and frisky once she opened the door, which was carelessly open and unguarded for suicidal individuals, messing even her short, bleached-blond hair. She adjusted her blue-tinted glasses, glaring upon his back as he stood motionless at the edge. She padded forward and halted an arm's length away from him the moment he began to speak.
"Here and then I've thought I found a perfect spot to commit suicide without rousing too much attention."
She merely raised a brow at him but said nothing as he rambled on.
He sighed in dismay, followed by a glum drop of his head. "A shame, too. But then again, this place seems far too lonesome and quiet to fall off, don't you think?"
"I find it a pitiful place to die," she stated, humoring him her frank opinion. "What are you thinking about?"
He chuckled. And it was strangely lively and amused, for a man who supposedly wanted to meet his finality. "You see a man about to commit suicide and that's the first thing you ask me. It should be obvious, should it not?"
She frowned. Not only from his peculiarity but also from his notion. "Well, if any suicidal person were in your position, they could have just chosen to fall off already. I came here later than expected but here you still are, suspended in your position," she elaborated phlegmatically. "If there's anything on your mind right now, it would be hesitation. Or at least, something that's making you hesitate."
"You're perceptive, I'll give you that," he remarked and she could almost feel an amused smile from that pleased tone of his. "I admit that I've delayed a bit but I was rather contemplating whether I should fall off the building or drown in a nearby river instead. It's difficult to decide what kind of suicide suits me best but, of course, the choice always depends on which death is least painful."
Sighing, she deadpanned, "The decision should be simple. Both are painful thus terrible choices."
He paused for a moment, probably discriminating his hand-picked choices of suicide.
"Well, falling off a building should be quick and easy."
"But there's the possibility of you somehow managing to survive."
"Hm, then again dying from drowning sounds rather poetic."
"Aside from the former, drowning is an excruciatingly slow process."
"You're a peculiar woman."
She resisted the caprice to scoff. "Am I now?"
Just as the evening wind swept by, she heard scuffing from the concrete wall and the soft flap of his coat. To her dismay, he did no such thing as to separate himself from his recent position, from behind the railing which he was unfearfully growing more comfortable to be in. He turned aptly to face her. Instead of a firm grip, he was casually leaning on the railing, subject on pursuing their talk. "Often when strangers find me committing suicide, expectantly they do their best to stop my actions." He offered a genial smile at the notion.
He was curious of her, she could tell. If it wasn't apparent from his words, it glistened from his eyes.
She cocked her brow. "You've attempted this before?"
His head tilted, musing. "Yes, plenty of times," he said. "Alas each attempt failed."
"Well, I'm discouraging you."
Her intent didn't particularly upset him. Actually, he appeared to be genuinely intrigued. "Then again you do seem relatively calm about it. Is it a habit of yours conversing with suicidal men?"
When he had uttered it, it didn't feel like a taunt. It was more like a speculation. Perhaps, it had been the mild, affable tone of his voice that didn't render her irked. Although she would admit that he did have a point about her having a propensity in conversation to unwholesome company. Of course, she wouldn't openly divulge it to the likes of him.
"Not particularly," she professed. "If you must know, I prefer conversing to another person from the other side of the railing."
His lips simply quirked at her response upon perceiving the gist of why she had spoken it in the first place. But he wasn't in the mood of complying to her bidding just yet. "Ah, but the view is quite lovely from here," he let his eyes wander in awe on the cityscape in spite of the alarmingly nightmarish height and the morbid, cobbled pavement that he had better off label as his grave, if he so urged to meet an early demise.
Although his flippancy manifested upon his face, in that convincingly devil-may-care smile of his, he had never been fathomable. She prided herself for possessing a trained eye and an adept scrutiny. And more often than not it was not that difficult ascertaining the character of a suicidal mind yet his remained as a conundrum. If there was anything to confirm from him, he was always mulling deeply. She noticed it from that distinct, far-off look in his eyes. In the very way he spoke and acted. As if he wasn't even there.
And perhaps, he detected her own suppositions of him as well. Leaning casually, he sighed under his breath. "You really are stopping me."
"One may say I'm doing you a favor," she shrugged in blithe nonchalance. "But I'd like to think that I'm sparing you from hospital bills."
"Though you're not the most inspiring of sorts," he remarked, almost nearing a criticism. "Not even a prep talk about the wonders of life?"
He laughed at his own jape.
Her brow twitched in annoyance. "It appears you like to stall."
He lifted his shoulders in an unabashed shrug. "I do fancy a nice distraction," he confessed, flashing a winsome smile at her. "The company of a beautiful woman always does the trick."
She simply disregarded his compliment. "You're a man without friends, aren't you?"
"Well, I do have some friends back at the Agency."
"You mean one of the clerks down here?"
"Oh? No, not at all. I don't work here."
She didn't bother questioning him about that.
He was an absolute eccentric. That served as a good reason enough.
Before she could voice out any opinions of her own, she then realized that their exchanges had simply been productive in prolonging their unusual confab and had done less to render the outcome she had wanted. The sun was setting, bordering dusk. But most importantly, she was late. There were still affairs that had to be prioritized that surmounted each vain attempt in convincing a suicidal man.
Although this confrontation had been nothing more but an inconvenience, she wasn't entirely concerned if she retarded for awhile on a roof with an even more enigmatic stranger. Diversion had been an enticing thing and often passed by with so much to offer.
"Say, I didn't quite catch your name."
She blinked, not skipping a beat. "I don't really think it's necessary."
His brow quirked ever so slightly. His curiosity has yet to wear off him. "Frankly, it'd be a shame," his head tipped to the side, his thumb cupping his chin sagely. "It would be nice to know the name of the last person I have ever spoken to. Or possibly my savior."
Pulling her leather jacket closer to her, she casually stuffed her hands on its pockets. "I'm fine being tagged as a stranger," she said blatantly. It was a poor excuse and her utterance may have not been the most credible but she preferred to be nameless. The prospect of meeting him again in the future was rather bleak and far-fetched. "But if it appeases you, you can call me by any name. Or guess my name, if you will. I'll warn you, though. I won't hint anything."
Then his lips curved pleasingly. "You seem to fancy anonymity."
She shrugged. "There's still thrill in guessing, isn't there?"
"Perhaps. Nevertheless, I'll humor you," he reiterated insouciantly. "Well, you do strike me as . . . Mariko. Or maybe Natsuko. Is that close enough?"
Close.
Gracing him an offhanded smile, she said vaguely, "Nice try."
He dipped his head and gave her an accepting nod. He smiled at the genuine gesture. "I wouldn't mind hiding my name from you as you did but I'm not the sort to introduce myself anonymously," he admitted. "I'm Osamu Dazai."
"Dazai," she repeated thoughtfully, as if testing the name, as it rolled off her tongue. "You know, you shouldn't have."
It would have been better if he didn't. Though if they had lived in different circumstances and in a more suitable setting, she wouldn't have minded personally keeping in touch with him. He seemed like an interesting person. But the less people she met, the less burden she had to go through with their involvement in her life. The risk of it always had inevitable consequences.
Shrugging, he added, "Consider it as a keepsake."
A keepsake, hm?
"For wha—what are you doing?"
His brows rose from the change of tone in her voice. One hand grappled at the railing while he leaned back. He was barely dangling.
Dazai gestured at his actions. "This? I've considered to die here, as I planned earlier."
Unbelievable. Crossing her arms, she frowned at his admittance. "So you decide to disregard my intentions?"
He stared at her innocently. "Yes."
It had to be some sort of joke. If it was, it wasn't funny.
Yet how could she know?
When an indecipherable man like him seemed so willing to commit suicide for a reason beyond her comprehension.
Still, she also resolved to defy his wishes. And he'll thank her for it.
He was still wearing that freewheeling smile of his, gazing below as if the consequences unfazed him. His feet edging closer to empty space. His grasp loosening. Death captivated him, lured him. He flicked his eyes at her for a brief second, wringing out her thoughts, scrutinizing her intently. Impatient and racked to her nerves, she utterly disliked the fact that he still had the gall to grin at her like a child. Then was it really just a joke after all? Did he really possess such a morbid sense of humor for the sake of seeing her bawl out?
It was the moment when his fingers released the railing.
And she, impetuously inclined to act, lunged forward in urgency. As he leaned back near the railing, he stood still. He didn't fall. It had been a morbid joke. Because his smile was still intact, a very telling smile at that. His eyes gleamed in what appeared to be in state of sickeningly immature amusement. He opened his mouth, about to reveal his intentions to pacify her down. And as much as she wanted to simply drag him by the collar to conclude this mishap, it had been too late when she began to close in on him. Cutting his sentence short before it had been enunciated completely.
When their eyes met. And a spate of power uncoiled within her.
From her abrupt movements her blue-tinted glasses slid off her face, tumbling on the ground.
"Stop!"
And he stopped.
Just as she said.
He stared at her. Thunderstruck. Petrified.
She felt everything all at once. Confusion. Alarm. Suspicion. His emotions and thoughts had rung like knells inside her head, bellowing in great magnitude each moment she unintentionally pervaded further in the deep recesses of his mind. Vague snippets of memories stormed upon her head, all dark and gruesome and despicable. Gunfire and carnage. A doctor slitting the throat of a bedridden man. A boy metamorphosing into a savage tiger.
A vertigo reigned over her head. The process had always been nauseating and unforgiving.
Especially when such power was consequently deflected with a horrid side effect.
She despised this ability.
Cold sweat beaded on her forehead. Resting her hand on her temples, she groaned in pain. Specifically, she eagerly wanted to lurch forward and retch the bile rising on her throat. Those horrid images—no, his memories or at least what she had seen so far were too wretched for one to stomach. Frankly, she still couldn't perceive what she did see. Nor have accepted them. He didn't look like a murderer. But her ability always contradicted her own perspective. It always made her see the things she didn't want to see.
Swallowing a breath, she looked at him. Felt the concern from his eyes and the cautious alert at the back of his head.
"Get back inside here. Away from the railing."
She used it again. Admittedly, she had to lest he was frozen in that position for who-knows-when.
She bent down to swipe her glasses. Wiping them gingerly with the back of her gloved hand, she adjusted them back on the bridge of her nose. Biting her tongue, she tamped the urge to groan as she felt another throe rupture her mind. She felt herself reel from her movements for awhile, galumphing each effort to compose herself. Endure it.
"You're an ability-user."
Shit, she cursed. It occurred to her that he witnessed her using this ability and the thought greatly bothered her. It was too dangerous for someone to know what she could do. Focusing her attention on him, she couldn't determine the look in his eyes, but she was sure of one thing. There was certainty within them. And whatever that certainty was, no matter if it was for a good or bad end, she would always deem it as an adversity.
Indifferently disregarding his statement, she cleared her throat and reiterated, "I should leave." She turned around and treaded forward to the door hastily, shirking him like a runaway. As long as he didn't have any sort knowledge about her, she was fine. She was safe. And this whole misfortune of a meeting can be treated of as some sort of misunderstanding—easily forgotten and taken care of.
He should pose no threat. He had nothing against her.
"Ah—hey, wait!"
He trailed behind her as she hurried down the stairs. She opted to avoid him in hopes of losing his tracks on her, though much to her dismay, he didn't stray away, following her like a bloodhound on its lead, even after exiting out of the vicinity. And in spite of his prompting and inquiry, he persevered in reaching out to her. And his purposes in doing so was beyond her because it could be anything. Information. Money. Reason.
She considered the latter but it didn't matter all the same.
A vexed sigh left her mouth. She finally halted. "Leave me alone."
He replied behind her, "I would if you would just listen."
She mused deeply of his words. But to trust him was still up to debate.
Turning around to face him, she crossed her arms. "What?"
"I want to compensate."
—
Without reservation, she downed her glass with one swig and judging from the fervency upon her eyes she was intent on downing another glass from reckless impulse.
Although she accepted his invitation, it was certain that she had done so in reluctance. Yet in spite of her patent aversion, the mention of bar and alcohol did manage to make her comply more willingly than he anticipated. Quite frankly, it was the best option he would rather take, knowing that alcohol was capable of mellowing her down and had been the simplest means of extracting information.
She was tightlipped, keenly cautious in keeping her secrets. Most likely, he could tell she was reticent and hardboiled and her appearance had only given it away. If there was anything that described her, it would be black and intimidating. Her attire had been no more but an array of black and denim that it had almost defined her like a second nature. Dazai concluded it was probably true.
He heard her sigh exasperatedly. "Do stop analyzing me."
He didn't object her accusation. Lifting his glass, he drank coolly. "Would you like another glass?"
"No," she lowered her head, eyes trained on her half-empty whiskey. "I don't plan to stay long."
In other words, she was hellbent in hightailing him. Disappearing in sight. From lack of knowledge of her identity and account, she was untraceable and would likely blend in a crowd of strangers with ease. It would be troublesome. Especially having to pry her without indicating her of his objective. And as much as he disliked handling taxing cases, he could never deny his growing enthusiasm of the matter.
The more obstructive she was, the more difficult it had to be done. It excited him. The thought of an indefinite outcome was rather thrilling. He liked a challenge and whenever had he obliged to decline? There was unbridled potential in those eyes framed with blue-tinted shades. Like him, she, too, understood that failure was never an option.
Stone-faced, she had almost finished her drink and was now staring on the lined rows of liquor bottles as if it piqued her. She didn't, really. Nothing in particular fascinated her.
Dispelling the silence between them, he began, "I find it curious," his fingers played with his glass and her concentration wavered. "I failed to ask you why you tried to stop my suicide attempt. Would you enlighten me?"
She curved her brow questioningly. "My reason is obvious, isn't it?" she quipped, quoting his previous words.
It felt like a retaliation for earlier but he dismissed it as straightforwardness. He shrugged. "An excuse such as to save another life is rather redundant."
She finally looked at him. "Do you expect me to embellish the truth?"
He ceased his fiddling and leaned at her. "No. You don't look like the sort," he uttered, letting his eyes inspect her, which she reckoned with displeasure. "However I find you as a person with an entirely different perspective. A different motive."
She regarded his nuances with a phlegmatic front, maintaining the image of aloofness. Honestly, she was good at it. All the more reason he wanted to break that facade. See the human beneath all that composure.
After expiring a sigh, her mouth opened. "Insight."
Dazai blinked. "Really?"
Her gloved hand reached for her glass, flourishing the remaining golden liquor out of whim. The gaze upon her eyes was heady and salient, even behind those drab blue-tinted glasses, but most importantly she didn't lie. She averted her eyes from him, staring down at what she held. "I'm not sure," she muttered, uncertain, "because the conclusion will always wound up the same either way. I won't see things as you do." This time, she was babbling to herself, fussing over some inner conflict he couldn't relate with.
Capturing the glass to her lips, she drank in silent reflection. "I can't see the appeal of death."
And what do you see in death? He was tempted to ask, but pushed aside the question before it ever escaped his mouth. Evidently, she wasn't intrigued in such matter. Even her very utterance sounded grim, as if it left a bitter taste in her tongue. Though, the thought of death seemed to haunt her—prompted her to seek it, grasp its purpose.
"Reprieve."
In a fraction, her eyes pulsed wide from the word. She was unable to recuperate for a few seconds.
He continued on, "There is reprieve in finality. A reprieve which is unsullied by life."
It was unintentional. He didn't mean to share his opinions but, perhaps, satisfying her with this bit of knowledge granted her that insight she wanted. He wasn't too sure it would change her sentiment after admitting her disinterest. Deciding to no longer entertain the thought, he drank capriciously, washing his tongue with refreshing ale.
"Reprieve, hm," she remarked softly. If their circumstances were different, she might have smiled at the saying. "It's a pleasant thing."
A pregnant silence loomed between them.
"Are you not . . . going to ask what happened earlier?"
Hesitance. Doubt. That question weighed upon her lips, but he felt that there were more words lingering at the back of her tongue. Words he would love to explicit. But she was careful, too careful. He felt her prodding as if she penetrated inside his mind, testing him.
He smiled disarmingly. "You were in no disposition to speak about it so I respected your decision," he said in his usual, congenial tone. "But would you mind if I do?"
She paused for a moment. Thinking.
"No," she deadpanned. "I'm not going to answer anything."
Ah. That was rather disappointing. He pried further, "Then why bring up the question?"
The woman in question placed down her glass, reverberating a dull thud on the wooden bar stand. She left him in a moment of suspension. Some part of him acquired a growing anticipation. Some part of him sensed an unnerving alarm.
In a low, suspecting voice, she said, "It's because you're unbothered," she glared at him calmly. "And it would appear that you have an idea as to what ability-users are when generally most of the public has no knowledge of such existence."
Unaffected, Dazai merely took it as a warning. No more but a minuscule matter. Perhaps, it lacked a bit of bite but he gave it a pass. "You don't beat around the bush," he grinned yet the curl upon his lips was more knowing and amused than obnoxiously blithe. He leaned boldly and grasped her hand, as if to reach out in congenial terms. "But you don't have to be afraid."
Smiling, he whispered conspiratorially, "I am an ability-user myself."
Her brows rose. "You are?"
"I want to hire you," he proposed, giving her hand a light squeeze.
He began, "I work for the Armed Detective Agency," he showed her his detective license from his pocket for validation. "It's a private government organization that specializes in administering specific cases and it also admits ability-users for such purpose. You're perceptive. Although I think you'll still need a little practice, you possess an extraordinary ability nonetheless. I'm certain you'll qualify in."
She blinked owlishly, registering his words.
Returning back to her senses, she cleared her throat. "That's a nice offer," she replied curtly, considering. "But I'm not interested."
A sigh then left her lips, long and thoughtful. Bothered. There was a grave look upon her gaze—as if she made her final decision. A decision which she patently regarded with dissatisfaction. Her words were slow and articulated clearly. "Actually, I'd prefer it if you," her hand slowly took off her blue-tinted glasses, exposing her pale gray eyes.
"Forget we ever met."
Silence.
He would admit, though. Her eyes were such a striking sight. Though what appealed him in such way was not based on appearance but of something invisible and compelling.
Power.
An irresistible and corrupting power resided in those eyes.
It was just as he theorized. He made two possible deductions after offering her a job proposition, his lure; one, if she was to acquiesce. The other was this exact scenario. Resorting to such underhanded tactics, she wasn't just afraid of the thought that someone discovered that she had been an ability-user, but judging from her recent actions, his involvement with the government further spurred her to quickly settle this affair. Interesting. He wondered if she participated in illegal activities.
Dawning upon her that the conclusion didn't meet her expectations, she was utterly shell-shocked. He took note of the flabbergast in her features. Remembering each detail satisfyingly. It was priceless.
He smirked slyly. His index finger tapped the back of her hand as if to assure her that he wasn't the slightest bit influenced by her mind control. His thumb brushed the skin beneath her wrist, feeling her erratic pulse quicken each second. Then he noticed something else.
There was another thing which he liked about those eyes—her unshakable defiance.
A/N: This was unintentional. By that I mean, I did not expect to write for this fandom but, well, I did. Putting that aside, thank you for those who read this story!
Now this is where I start my blabbering ( which I don't mind if you skipped)...
First of all, I hope you bear with me because the author I used for my character is, well, a contemporary writer. She lived in the mid-1900s, unlike most canon characters whose authors mostly lived in the late 1800s to early 1900s. But this author just so happens to perfectly fit the qualities I need for the character and the story so I went along with it, and aside from that she offers a nice different perspective in the crime genre. Sadly, I can't share her name yet but you'll know it eventually.
Second, I've been itching to write a crime or mystery story for awhile now. Since BSD gives me that opportunity, I'm taking advantage of it. Is this going to follow canon? Nope. It's AU.
Third, forgive me if I've somehow managed to make Dazai OOC because even his character is a mystery to me. Regarding his ability in this story, although not fully clarified yet in the canon he can only use his ability on skin-on-skin contact. Well, in this story at least. As for my OC's ability, it would be fully elaborated in the next chapter, since she unintentionally managed to affect him.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bungou Stray Dogs