- NOTE: This story probably takes place sometime before Storm Bringer & the Dragon's Head Conflict -
Faint orange light suffused the dark, dusty interior of the dingy one-bedroom apartment. The sitting room was sparsely outfitted with dilapidated pieces of furniture. The standing–or rather, leaning–lamp, the source of the light that illuminated the room. A scratched-up coffee table, with countless water and coffee stains decorating its surface. What looked like a wooden cabinet was propped against the wall, one of its back legs missing. In the middle of the room sat a soft, but lopsided couch, with a faded floral design woven into it.
And, lying sprawled across said couch, a boy picked absentmindedly at the little loops of string that had come loose from the seat, staring out the window into the deserted street below.
At first glance, one would assume that the boy was hardly thirteen; he was skinny and rather short, with bright, wavy orange hair tied back in a short ponytail. He wore a light black coat over a white button-up shirt, and a choker wrapped around his neck. His face seemed to naturally hold a petulant expression, his blue eyes narrowed and his mouth curling slightly downward.
In this particular instance, however, he was genuinely annoyed.
"Where is he?" he grumbled under his breath, his eyebrows furrowing deeper.
He glanced at the clock on the wall, which read a little past three. He had been waiting. For over an hour. For a man he honestly did not even want to see.
"Where is who?" a cheery voice piped up behind him.
The boy jumped from the couch, a red aura suddenly enveloping him. His feet didn't, however, land on the ground, but instead hit the ceiling. He pushed off of it, shooting down toward the figure crouching behind the couch. Within a nanosecond, he had pinned down the cloaked man, firmly gripping his arms behind his back, and was preparing to obliterate his skull with his gloved fist when…he realized he wasn't able to.
A couple of beats passed. Slowly, the redheaded boy lowered his arm and rose, kicking the other man squarely in the back.
"Took you long enough, Dazai," he growled. "You know I could have killed you just now."
The figure rolled around to face the redhead. He also wore a black coat, but his was thicker and longer. Bandages covered his arms and his right eye, and dark hair swept down into his brown eyes. He gave the redhead a sugary-sweet smile.
"Ah, no, you couldn't have. You and I both know that my ability cancels out yours. You can't kill me with your fancy gravity-manipulation even if you wanted to. Or do you need me to demonstrate again?"
At the words "gravity manipulation," Dazai wiggled his fingers and raised his eyebrows, making the redhead grit his teeth. The man was insufferable.
"Well, you and I both know," said the boy, mockingly, "that I could kill you even without my ability."
The teenager on the floor sat up slowly, wincing dramatically as he did so. He tilted his head up–though, admittedly, not very far up–to look the redhead in the face. His eyes widened in feigned innocence.
"But then, Chuuya-chan, where would you be? I'm your partner! You can't do anything without me!"
Chuuya's eye twitched in irritation. "Shut up!" he snapped. "I'm completely capable of doing things without you bugging me every step of the way."
He turned toward the window, and then just as quickly turned back, his eyes narrowed.
"And don't call me 'Chuuya-chan!'"
Dazai heaved himself up, sighing. "Okay, whatever you want, Chuu-chan."
Chuuya felt like he was about to explode. But before a word could escape his mouth, Dazai raised a finger.
"I'd love to have this conversation, but didn't we have something we needed to do?"
Chuuya tsk-ed and stomped toward the window, which he opened. He swung one leg out, then the other, and then slipped the rest of himself through. He stuck his hands in his pockets as he descended from the third-floor apartment to the street, the red aura once again surrounding him. His feet hit the pavement lightly. There were few bystanders out and about at this hour of the night–or morning, rather–but the few that were passing by stared at him in shock and disbelief. Dazai walked out of the apartment complex's front door a few moments later, his eyebrows raised slightly.
"Y'know, maybe it's a better idea to be more…subtle?"
Chuuya glared at him and scoffed.
"Subtle isn't really my thing, if you know what I mean."
Dazai raised his eyebrows even further, and then rolled his eyes, continuing to walk down the street as Chuuya resentfully followed.
Chuuya Nakahara did stick out like a sore thumb. His bright orange hair, his loud personality, and his ridiculous outfit–complete with his stupid hat–made him impossible to miss in a crowd. That was one of the many things that Dazai hated about him.
Dazai sighed again as the two of them walked toward their destination. Neon signs and dim street lights faintly illuminated the street, tinging the pavement various shades of blue, red, and yellow. Shadows chased each other in the flickering light and seeped into every corner and alley they passed. Dazai felt entirely at home in the darkness; he felt as though its coldness and loneliness echoed his own.
"Oi," growled Chuuya from behind him. "Where are we going?"
Dazai, pausing his musing, flashed him a smile. "Where we're supposed to be going, of course."
He was mildly amused by Chuuya's fuming. These little things had never failed to entertain him in the few months that they had been working together. Both sixteen-year-olds–for they were both sixteen, despite Chuuya's short stature–were well-respected and highly-ranked within the Port Mafia. Dazai had personally recruited fifteen-year-old Chuuya, after disentangling him from…previous commitments.
The two had not hit it off from their very first meeting, and their mutual dislike had not gone away during the time that they had spent working together.
Dazai thus took great delight in making Chuuya as angry as humanly possible.
He glanced at him again. "What, you can't figure it out? Why don't you use that little brain of yours and think for once?"
Before Chuuya could say a word–likely an expletive of some sort–Dazai suddenly stopped at the door of a large, run-down warehouse. Chuuya almost ran into his back.
"What the-"
Dazai heaved yet another sigh. "It appears that our weapons dealers are starting to get cold feet. They've been cutting back on deals, and sometimes refusing them altogether. It's a possibility that they think their other customers offer them better chances and a better profit. Regardless, the boss sent us-"
He gestured to the two of them.
"-to…enlighten them to the reality of their situation."
Chuuya paused. "What other customers?"
Dazai met his eyes with a slight smile. "The Japanese government, of course."
Chuuya kicked down the door of the warehouse, his hands shoved in his pockets. The noise echoed around the large, dimly lit room. He was met with the sight of around forty men in black suits, their facial expressions betraying surprise and a healthy amount of fear.
About twenty were armed with machine guns, while the others carried crates of what were obviously weapons. In the center of the room sat a large truck, which was partially filled with more crates.
Immediately, the men carrying guns opened fire on the redheaded teenager.
Chuuya didn't flinch as hundreds of bullets froze in midair around him, caught in his gravity-manipulating aura. His lip curled when he noticed the guards' faces melt in shock and absolute terror. He then jumped, swung his leg, and kicked the tiny pieces of metal with incredible force. They shot back towards the armed guards with the same speed that they had been shot toward Chuuya. In a spray of red, every single one of the men in suits fell to the floor, dead.
The entire mission had taken a total of about ten seconds.
He clenched his fists at the uncomfortable feeling that invaded his chest. Despite working for the Port Mafia for almost a year, he was still unused to the policy of brutality under which the criminal organization operated. He scowled at the ground as Dazai meandered in.
"I don't know why Boss couldn't have just called in the Black Lizard," he muttered.
Dazai calmly took in the blood on the walls and the lifeless bodies strewn about on the floor. He turned to Chuuya, a mocking smile on his face. "I'm sure it's because he wanted to give you the chance to let off some steam. You've been so stressed lately, you poor thing."
Chuuya grit his teeth. "And who is responsible for that?!" he roared, his voice echoing around the warehouse's interior. "You are, you idiot!"
Dazai, unfazed, made his way to the truck that the men had been loading up and peered in. It seemed as though he was making some silent calculations in his head. He then turned back to Chuuya, his eyebrows raised and an expectant expression on his face.
Chuuya stared at him warily. "What?"
It now almost looked like Dazai was trying to make puppy-dog eyes. The sight was disconcerting. "Can you be my human forklift?"
The clatter of wood and metal on tile flooring was deafening.
Chuuya and Dazai stood on one side of the pile of crates and semi-automatic weapons, and across from them stood the Port Mafia receptionist's desk. Dazai never really understood why the Port Mafia needed a receptionist. To handle customer service? To take complaints? The idea always amused him.
"Special delivery!" he called cheerfully.
The poor woman–who had risen at their entrance–simply stared at the pile for a few seconds, and then quickly bowed and sat down to make a phone call.
Dazai smirked at the glare that Chuuya shot in his direction. He had persuaded the redhead to carry a giant, floating mass of weaponry from the warehouse to the Port Mafia base. It helped that it was an unholy hour of the morning, as there were few people to gawk at the hundreds of floating guns that glinted in the moonlight. It was an effective, efficient, and highly entertaining plan.
Despite his comment to Chuuya earlier that night, subtlety didn't actually matter much to Dazai. He had made the statement simply to rile the redhead up. It had served its purpose.
The two of them walked past the pile of weapons, up the stairs, and into the elevator. Dazai pushed the button at the top of the column, and it lit up with a faint "click." The elevator rose quickly. Through its glass walls, the two could see almost the entirety of Yokohama. Lights of various colors, some bright and some dim, illuminated the shapes and outlines of buildings and streets. The sky was beginning to lighten, casting streaks of pink and gold into the otherwise dark blue expanse. Dazai had always been fascinated by the sight of the city from so high up. He noted that he wouldn't mind it being the last thing that he ever saw. Perhaps jumping off of a building was the way to go, after all.
He glanced at the short figure standing next to him, and coolly considered what the perfect remark–one that would make him immediately blow his stack–would be.
"Chuuya-chan."
The redhead glared at him. "What," he snarled. "And don't call me that."
"Are you sure that you aren't injured? It appears a distinct possibility that you might have had at least a couple of inches blown off of you in the gunfire. Or…have you really always been that short?"
Chuuya's back became rigid as he clenched his fists, the anger virtually rolling off of him in waves. "What did you just-"
The elevator bell dinged, and Dazai casually stepped out.
***Hello everyone, and thanks for reading my fic! This is my first time writing something of this scale, but I'm really excited to see how it turns out. Right now, I'm planning for this story to have 25+ chapters; I've finished writing about a quarter of it so far. Just a note, I haven't read the manga yet, so if there are some inconsistencies please just bear with it (I am intentionally adding a few non-canon details, but I'm hoping not to interfere too much with the main story of BSD). I'm excited to have you guys with me on this journey! :)