I've fallen in love with Bungou Stray Dogs: Dark Era and I couldn't help but write this. More specifically, I fell in love with one of the main character, Odasaku. For those who haven't seen Bungou Stray Dogs, please do. It is amazing and the second season will blow your mind.
This is pretty much the retelling of the four episodes of Season 2 with some changed nooks and crannies. I originally wrote this with the thought that I would also perform this at school, which is why I didn't specifically say who was who and names are lost in this retelling. Still, I put enough evidence to show who is who, and though I did take out one of the major characters, the feeling will hopefully still be there.
Thank you for reading :)
Sitting next to the window, a man, slightly taller than the average teenager with a face of a hopeful young boy, clearly hears the gentle tapping of the rain against the glass. Quietly, he sips his chamomile tea, which had slightly cooled down from atmospheric wind in the small café. The book, twice the size of his palm, thins out, the pages cooly moving from one side to the other, silent except for the small, reassuring flap to signify an end that will surely revive again. The gentle pitter patter of the rain, the whispers of the wind, and the man's slightly vibrating hand brings an era of a calm before the storm. Because once the clock strikes 6 and the bell echoes from the old grandfather clock, he must leave his sanctuary and get his hands dirty with stains of red; metallic in its taste, thick in its consistency, and bright like neon in its color to never let him forget the sins he has committed.
But for now, his vibrating hand stays on the page, waiting patiently to turn it over so that he can get the next word imprinted.
Save. It reads. Save the person who has given you the life you deserve.
Who can be that kind of person?
Who else but your friend? Your friend, who has stayed by your side, who has known your troubles, who pains when they see your own.
The man's heart clenches. A friend who pains when they see your own. Would there truly be a friend like that?
"I see you every day here. Always in the exact same corner, always reading the same two books. Do you like the series that much?" A sudden stranger encroaches and the man who, in the gloomy light, seems older than he appears, looks up curiously.
"I do." He answers as he shows the stranger the title of the book he is currently reading. Part 2 of 3.
"There are so many other books that could peak your interest far more than these. How many times have you read them?"
"More times than I can count. These two books are splendid."
"Do you realize that there is a third part to the series?" The stranger questions and the man nods solemnly.
"I do. I've searched everywhere for it but I could never find it. Until I do, I must be satisfied with only these two. And yet, every time I finish the second book, my hand always reaches out for more, hoping that the third and last book will appear. But it never does."
"You should just leave the series there while you still have the chance. I've heard that the third book is the worst of the three." The stranger comments and the man looks at him oddly.
"Was the third book written terribly?"
"Not at all. It was the third book that received the most accolade after all."
"Then why do you assume that it is the worst?"
"Because it will not be the perfect ending you imagine. It is extremely tragic."
The man stays quiet for a moment, and the word tragic rings next to his ear. Then, as his clean fists unclench, he looks at the stranger with a resolve that lights up his hazel eyes. "I don't particularly care. I would love to know how the series ends. I would love to read the finale."
"Then you write it."
The man's eyes widen as he snaps his full attention towards the stranger who has impeached onto his fake, peaceful territory. "Me? Write?"
The stranger nods. "That is the only way you can keep the story perfect." He pauses for a second as he reaches inside his suitcase and takes out a book, thicker than the rest, and with a title that reads Part 3 of 3.
"To write a story is to write about a person, who will live and die, much like ourselves. You have the qualifications. Write and make that story your own."
The man, shocked, unconsciously reaches out for the last book of the series he has read and reread so many times. When he holds it, reality checks in and he can't help but hold it tightly to his chest once receiving it.
"Who are you?"
"Me? My name is…"
"How did such a skillful man like you end up in the lowest ranks? You, who was hired at such a young age to be an assassin. You obviously know how to handle a gun and your precision is flawless. You know when to dodge, your reaction time is far superior than most of the higher ranks, and it's almost as if you can see the future because you can always predict how the enemy will move. You can do all of this and yet…"
The man, now older, with a slight scruffy beard and lean figure, casts a side glance to the man next to him, taking a sip of the same drink he has in his still hand.
The man shrugs in response, unconsciously rearranging his jacket, long enough to cover his lower half of his legs. The man next to him sees the gun attached to his hip, one that has been untouched since his teenage years. He raises an eyebrow and points to it.
"You've never even touched this gun, have you?" He asks and the man shakes his head in disagreement.
"I have."
"But not to kill people."
"No."
"Why?"
"Are you ordering me as a superior to answer that question?" The man asks with skepticism and the man next to him looks at him for a second before laughing whole-heartedly.
The man next to him, shorter than he but with a charisma that radiates his entire being, is of an extremely high rank, an executive that leads most of the death-invoked operations and succeeds every time. In every slump, every obstacle and hindrance, whenever he comes in and analyzes the scene, mysteries that had been plaguing men for days is solved in a single night. Meticulous, intelligent, and soulless who constantly dreams of suicide, a way to run away from the world, the man next to him is to be feared the most. Cold and ruthless when he wants to be, no one has been able to stay silent with him as the torturer. He is a superior, one of the most respected people in the shadow world they both live in, but still he makes time to be his drinking partner, one whom he can talk to and vice versa.
In these moments, in this particular bar, they are no longer influenced by the caste system, superior and less. They are drinkers, partners, friends.
"Let's phrase that differently then. I'm asking you as a friend who wants to get to know you more." His friend twists and with his teasing, calculating half-smile, the man can't help but sigh and relent.
"I want to be a writer." He answers simply and his friend looks at him curiously.
"A writer?"
The man nods. "A writer. One day, I'm going to quit this job that only gives people pain and suffering, move to place with an ocean-side view where I can clearly see the water rock back and forth, and I'm going to write."
His friends closes his eyes and pictures it. He begins to nod. "Sounds promising. But what does that have to do with you not killing people?"
"To write a story is to write about people. One who takes lives can't write about lives. I feel like, if I were to ever kill with this gun again, I wouldn't be able to write anymore. I wouldn't be able to hold the privilege. I wouldn't be able to achieve my dream anymore."
"Is that so…" His friend responds in a thoughtful voice. He looks at the man with new eyes, more sparkling and bright compared to his moody surrounding. Sometimes, the man likes to think that this is his friend's true nature. Carefree and happy with the world around him. But then he remembers what he had told him one night in this bar.
"Do you know why I joined this league, plagued with the constant smell of death and pain? Why I'm so intent on doing my job correctly, even though I know it will only bring more demise? It's because humans crave reliance and dependence, whatever form it may take. It's our way of staying put in the world and having a path to walk on. By taking on this job, I hoped that there would be something here for me, anything that would help me find what I needed. I thought that, if you place yourself close to raw emotions like death, pain, violence and desire, then surely it would fill this empty hole in my soul. That way, I thought I could somehow live. There's practically nothing in the world that can satisfy me anymore. It's like I'm constantly walking in the darkness, clueless. At least now, I have a purpose. I can feel something remotely close to these raw emotions that everyone else seems to haven been blessed with."
If only the man that was in front of him now was the same person everyday. He hates to see his friend suffer, wandering around in the darkness when it's so clear that that's what he fears the most.
Save the person who has given you the life you deserve.
And yet, how could he? What could he do to help? To save?
His friend doesn't give him a chance to ponder and answer his own question. "But it's scary if you think about it." He suddenly says and the man looks at him curiously.
"If you think about what?"
"The fact that, if you ever get angry, if you ever lose your resolve due to your emotions, all of that will change. You'll lose the promise you made to yourself, you'll lose your chance of achieving this dream, and you'll lose yourself in the process."
"Do you think that will happen?"
"Depends. Is there anything you can think of that could drive you that point?"
There was. But during that moment, the man had completely forgotten. There was one moment that would clearly drive him to insanity, to the heart of darkness. He had forgotten, even though he shouldn't have. He shouldn't have let his guard down, but he had. In the heap of madness, in this vicious cycle of shooting and killing that he was forced to get sucked into, he had forgotten that there were children he wanted to save. He had cared for them deeply, so much so that the moment they were taken away from him, any morality, any thought, any hope he had of having a better future shattered in front of his eyes.
As he looks up to the meet the eyes of the man in the shadows, the man who had once given him another chance, he remorsefully says,
I'm sorry. I can no longer write anymore.
The last book of the series was wonderful, absolutely amazing. But there was one flaw. The last few pages of the third book that the man had generously been given were ripped out. Any trace of the ending was gone, leaving the man with a bittersweet feeling in his mouth. The clock struck 9 at night, the rain still hitting the side of the window, but all sound was lost to him as he finished the last sentence between the ripped edges. The two other books were cast to the side, forgotten in the heap of madness, from the sudden blend between fiction and reality. His phone that had been constantly ringing had finally stopped and the man's vibrating hand froze as well. The cold feeling by the side of his hip where his soiled gun was didn't feel cold anymore.
The bittersweet feeling in his mouth enhanced, his eyes closed but darting around frantically, impatiently. His mind, curiously, felt more peaceful than ever, even though he never did know how the book ended.
"Then you write it."
Write the ending? With a bit more time, he definitely could. The material he was given was marvelous and enough to make him hope. Before the torn pages, the last page he could read with vigor contained this phrase:
People live to save themselves. You will understand that at the moment of your own death.
Now, looking up at the glassy sky that stains the Catholic Church, with a hand covering his fatal gun wound and a screaming voice in the distant that vaguely sounds like his one and only friend's, the man blinks once, twice, and third time to really appreciate those last few words.
People live to save themselves.
With his remaining strength, he places his dirtied hand on top of his friend's that is now also stained with his bright, metallic thick blood. It's getting harder to breath, harder to focus, harder to realize that his life is soon coming to an end.
"We can fix this!" He can hear his friend desperately say.
"Listen to me." He says as strongly as possible. His friend stops short, his breath in hesitant, almost non-existent intervals.
"Don't talk. We need to preserve your strength. Please, just don't talk."
"Listen. Your desire to find something that can help you live, that can fill that empty hole in your soul… You'll never be able to find it. There's nothing in this world that will help you gain what you want to achieve. Neither the good nor the bad will be beyond what you expect it to be. You will wander the darkness for eternity. And you have to accept that fact."
His friend is speechless. His eyes are bloodshot red and wide, trembling before the man who's dying breath is getting shorter.
"Then what do I do?" He whispers. He sounds so much in pain.
He squeezes his friend's hands as a sign of reassurance. One last good act to repent for his sins. "Be on the side that helps people. Protect them and save them from this darkness that you are wandering in. Save them and help them live. Be a good man."
"How do you know that's the right path? How can you be so sure I can do that?"
"Of course I know." The man says, his voice gradually going silent. He smiles. "I'm your friend."
And that is the moment in which he knows he has saved him. His one and only friend.
The man's once hazel eyes, now grown black, finally close, tired of being angry, tired of being sad, tired of knowing the fact that he can no longer write.
Not long after, he remembers the stranger who had given him the last book of his favorite series; the man who had given him a glimpse of a new path, a different choice he could make with his already tainted life. His name was the same as the name in the three books played orderly on the table. In hindsight, maybe the author knew that he was hired killer and thus, had decided to approach him. Maybe he wanted to save his own skin, or maybe, he truly pitied the young fool who had strayed from the light.
People live to save themselves. How frightfully true.
Peace,
FlyAndDontLookBack