Author's Note: This is a sister fic to "Someday You'll Learn to LoveMe."

The title is inspired by Mark 6:4 (Aramaic Bible in Plain English translation) — " 'There is no Prophet who is despised except in his city and among his kindred and in his house.' " Whereupon the townspeople of Jesus' hometown, Nazareth, try to throw Jesus off a cliff when he interpreted a prophecy they didn't like: words of wisdom coming from the guy they had all watched grow up from infancy was a bit much for them to appreciate...

Disclaimer: The following story is a fan work derived from the anime series Durarara, which was originally written in light novel form by Ryohgo Narita. I do not profit from this work of fan fiction. I do not own the characters who I am borrowing from Durarara. I do not write canon, I twist, change, and play with what is canon. Questions? No? Didn't think so.

Please note that, although I am fascinated by some of the concepts I wrote about, some of the attitudes expressed in the fic are not mine, but the characters'.

I encourage you to review!

A Prophet in His Own City

Shall I then propose exile? Perhaps you would agree to that. Life would indeed be dear to me if I were unreasonable enough to expect that strangers would cheerfully tolerate my discussions and arguments when you who are my fellow citizens cannot endure them, and have found them so irksome and odious to you that you are seeking now to be relieved of them. No, indeed, Athenians, that is not likely. A fine life I should lead for an old man if I were to withdraw from Athens and pass the rest of my days in wandering from city to city, and continually being expelled. For I know very well that the young men will listen to me wherever I go, as they do here. If I drive them away, thy will persuade their elders to expel me; if I do not drive them away, their fathers and other relatives will expel me for their sakes...

"What are you reading, Namie? I've never seen you with a book before."

He would just have to notice that, wouldn't he. "I got bored. Makise recommended it to me—she said she read it when she was at university." Namie yawned, parted the covers of the book to save her place, and threw it back on the desk in disgust. "Stop talking to me. I'm in a mood. You'll regret it."

"I'll take my chances." Izaya crossed his arms. "I meant, tell me the title. Is that so hard?"

"The Apology, written by Plato. Go away."

"Greek. How staid and stoic and tragically formal and old-fashioned."

"As a matter of fact it's one of the easiest things I've read in a long time," Namie replied sharply.

"Oh?" Izaya raised his eyebrows.

"The plot is easy. So are the dialogues. These are the originals of ideas that have been floating around for milennia in splintered forms," Namie explained, frowning.

"Sorry, I'll pass. I like modern regurgitations, they sit better in the stomach. Just give me the gist." As Izaya leaned forward, a thin-lipped smile spread across his face.

Namie sighed, threw back her head and arms, and sat back. When she spoke, it was in a monotone, with great impatience, irritation, and inexactitude. "The great philosopher Socrates revered by all is brought to trial for corrupting the youth and teaching them not to believe in the state gods. Socrates uses logic to refute these ridiculous claims. But he knows he's still going to die. He then explains that he's pissed off too many people in the process not to be sentenced. He then pisses off everyone even more when he claims that he's actually been doing the city a favor by acting the bee buzzing in its bonnet, and just maybe the city owes him something in return instead. He is executed. Sound familiar?"

"That's such a wonderful story, Namie," Izaya said sarcastically. "Whatever inspired you to pick it up?"

"Like I said, university homework."

Izaya, flippant, flashed a smile. "Ah, what a bore."

Namie sat up and clenched her fists. "No, it's not boring. That's the problem." She swung to look at him. "Do you really not find anything familiar about our situation? Really truly? You know what is so poignant about this stupid book?"

"Like what?" said Izaya, taken aback.

"That what happened to Socrates could be happening right now in Ikebukuro itself." She stared hard into Izaya's face. "And that, if something like that were to happen, it would happen to you."

"Whaaaaat?" Izaya said, spreading his hands, looking innocent. "Do I look like someone who corrupts the youth and teaches them to disbelieve the gods?"

"Hah!" Namie threw her fists into the air. "You know you have, you do, you will!" She gulped for breath. "Think of what you've done! What did you do to Masaomi, huh? Or Mikado? Or Shizuo? They all tread against the current of society because of you and the ideas you gave to them. You take this city's peace and riddle it with violence. You pull strings and play with strangers' lives. You play factions against each other for your own amusement and stand back to watch, superior for not getting involved in the action. You make the police look foolish. You and your games! Is that not bad enough? You haven't even got an excuse, and unlike Socrates, you have the utter gall to admit that you're not even good. So what will you get for it? What do you expect to get for it?"

Izaya simply shrugged.

Namie slammed her hand down on the book so hard it hurt. "This," she whispered, in pain, and then her voice got stronger. "Nothing. Not a single effing thing. Worse than nothing—a city of people who have turned against you. And you know what? Ikebukuro is not as enlightened as Athens, even if the death penalty is out. Legally, at least."

Izaya quirked an eyebrow. "What makes you think I'll get caught?"

"What makes me think—! Do you seriously think that you can live like this forever? Without any consequences?"

"I can survive. People call me a weasel." He smirked.

"You may just have charisma, Izaya, but those who know you harbor wounded pride and fear, not liking." Namie's voice dripped with derision. "Socrates made himself unpopular. You must understand that the way you have been carrying on, you will die young when you are discovered."

"If I die, it's at the hands of the yakuza, not the government," Izaya said easily. As if that was so much better. Mafia were not ones to make death easy.

So...he understood. Why didn't that matter to him?

"How can you say that?" Namie's voice trembled as she stood up. "Screw the government! You know the underworld might be out for your blood? Are you suicidal?!" Namie yelled, clenching her fists. "So much the better! Not that the government agencies would be so quick to suck up and kiss your skinny ass, either! Not even if you had the answers to every single intelligence question they all needed answering!" She forced herself to stop, and refocus while she trembled with the force of her anger. There was one thing she wanted to know, and ranting at Izaya wasn't going to tell her what she wanted, no, what she needed to know. "How can you live with that?"

Izaya blinked at her slowly, his expression seeming to slip into bewilderment—not at the question, but at Namie's vehemence—as if he had never considered it, and couldn't understand why the concept would bother her. "All people die," he says, brows quirked, his tone evenly measured—

"And you'd rather go out with a bang." Namie tossed her head, shaking her stray bangs out of her eyes. "So—what are you dying for?"

"I don't understand the question." Izaya steepled his fingers and gazed at her. "The premise of your argument is faulty."

"No." Namie quickly shook her head. "Socrates had a purpose, and it was to discover wisdom, and the truth. It was what many consider a noble cause, to speak truth to power. What I can't figure out, what I have never understood, is what you are trying to do. You must have a reason to risk so much. What could be worth sticking your neck out like this every day? What is worth dying young? What are you trying to teach this city?"

"I don't intend to teach anyone anything," Izaya said frostily. "The city must evolve on its own."

"Into what?" she snapped.

Izaya shrugged again. "Something will change. Something must always change. I find that humanity is at its ugliest, and conversely its most beautiful, on the edge of its limits. It might as well be me that pushes it there."

Namie silently trembled with suppressed rage.

Izaya stared her back down, and asks her, quite calmly, "Are you in love with me, Namie?" If it wasn't the case, she wouldn't care so much.

What is with his obsession with this question. Why does he keep asking me this? A frisson ran down Namie's back. "What the hell are you saying?"

"You care about me."

"Of course not! You—you—you're just a piece of work!" Namie's hands curled into fists. "Why would I care about shit? If you're so set in your ways then—go on, go ahead, do yourself in!"

Izaya shrugged. "Evidently some people are still fond of me." He watched her. It doesn't matter what she says. It was true.

Namie snarled insensibly and stalked away, running her fingers through her long hair. Sweat gathered at her roots. She knew he was baiting her—had known since the start of the conversation.

There are some things to which there are no answers. She could insist as often as the day was long that she shouldn't be upset at the thought of that man trotting blithely down the path of destruction. But over time, even he had somehow become important to her. So let him think what he will. Perhaps it was even true.

But there was no reward in Izaya's life that she could see, only a future of pain. Only Izaya could explain what he saw in that future. Namie could see no future for them together.

"Why cannot you withdraw from Athens, Socrates, and hold your peace?"

It is the most difficult thing in the world to make you understand why I cannot do that. If I say that I cannot hold my peace because that would be to disobey the god, you will think that I am not in earnest and will not believe me. And if I tell you that no greater good can happen to a man than to discuss human excellence every day and the other matters about which you have heard me arguing and examining myself and others, and that an unexamined life is not worth living, then you will believe me still less...And what is more, I am not accustomed to think that I deserve anything evil.

Izaya swiveled in the chair Namie had just vacated, propped his legs up, twined his fingers together, and thought.

He did not know how she missed his motivations; they seemed perfectly clear to him, and it baffled him that nobody else seemed to share them. Questions about curiosity. Evolution. Humanity. How the act of observation changes the observed.

He is the chaos and the insoluble challenge that rallies people to act, to change, to become more than they were. There is meaning in being that mysterious force with power over human lives, a meaning that cannot be comprehended by those whose lives are affected. He pushes, and the people give under his way. He is not looking for thanks. He never has been. He is nothing if he does not impact the world around him. For good or evil, he helps the world turn. It is proof that he is truly alive. To be stagnant is to die, within or without.