Hey fandom. Long time no see? I'm trying to get back into the swing of things after the last few years. I started this story… Well, I'm not even sure how long ago. This chapter itself was written months, maybe years ago, but I never did get around to posting it. I recently rewatched Durarara!, however, and finally made it to the end of the series… It got my muse back up and kicking. I'd like to continue writing for this fandom, including this story, and I plan to rewrite a lot what I have written in the past due to my evolution as a writer. Until then, however, enjoy this dusty chapter: I'm still proud of it, even though it may be old. Expect a rewrite and continuation of this story sometime in the future... As well as the posting of another story, something interesting that I've been cooking up for a bit.

Chapter One

It was dark, Shizuo noticed idly.

It was like they feared he could break out if even a single night-light was left for him - aside from that beneath the door, anyway. Idiots. He couldn't just rip apart a steel-reinforced prison cell… Especially when he was chained to it, his binds the kind that stopped elephants from rampaging.

And especially when he was drugged.

It was a cruel concoction, Shizuo decided. Crafted to sap most of his strength yet allow him to stay as alert as ever, he couldn't even sleep the time away. All that the man could do was stare at the same spot on the wall, one of the few illuminated by the light under the door, for hours on end. He couldn't even shift his face towards another one; the drug took all of his mobility.

Mustering the strength he had been saving, however little it was, he attempted to cry into the shadows. Barely a whisper escaped his lips. Shizuo felt something small - anger? energy? hope? - die within him, and he felt a weak sting behind his eyes that was quickly willed away. No one was coming, and why should he expect them to? He was a murderer. A maniac.

A monster.

He continued to stare at the wall.

Shizuo wasn't sure how much time had passed by now.

Had it been minutes? Hours? Days? He wouldn't have been surprised if years had passed him by in this time, though he knew it wasn't so. Devoid of anything actually entertaining, the man had taken to counting his meals when they came - or rather, counting the times a white-clad doctor came to inject him with nutrients and more of that blasted drug. He hadn't seen them enough times for it to have been a year yet. However, he reasoned that they probably wanted to keep him weak. It could have been weeks.

He wanted to see the sun.

Without any warning, light suddenly flooded Shizuo's sight. He was momentarily blind as he grasped for his surroundings, unable even to avert them from the source. So, they had opened the door, then? It was time for another round of shots.

How odd it was to instead feel several pairs of hands grasping at him. They pulled forcefully, yanking his limp body around as though he was a resisting beast, and he found he could do nothing to stop them; he couldn't even see yet, so how could he possibly move?

Vision finally started to return to Shizuo as he felt himself being pulled up, up, up, his arms drawn across the shoulders of the strong men until, suddenly, he was in a chair and he was moving. He garbled out something that sounded vaguely inquisitive, and the gruff guards responded with only one word.

Bath.

How humiliating.

It was, at first, a nagging.

After so much time alone, the thoughts were to be expected. He had broken his vow, that much he was sure of. The fact that he had killed could never be forgiven. However, wasn't it the victim's fault, too? He just couldn't keep his mouth shut, and Shizuo had warned him, right? When the taunting went too far, the blonde lost it, just as he had every time. All Ikebukuro knew of his strength, his temper. It knew of the danger of just approaching him, and so it was the man's fault he was killed, right?

Shizuo ached as a familiar thought echoed through his mind for the millionth time that hour.

With great power comes great responsibility.

At some point in his reasonings, Shizuo realized it was never the victim's fault.

Sometimes, they liked to beat him.

In-between the 'feedings' and the astoundingly humbling bath times, police officers occasionally would enter his cell. They carried with them an array of weapons, from night sticks to metal things to nothing but their bare knuckles. A few times they carried odd weapons, ones that did more than just lightly bruise him, no matter how tough his body was. Once or twice, he actually bled. From the way his head tilted, he never got a good look at the culprits nor their weapons of choice, but he certainly experienced them all.

Once or twice, they did more than just beat him, but Shizuo didn't like to think about that.

At least the painful strikes were kept to a minimum. The guards didn't want to get in trouble themselves… and at that thought, Shizuo paused.

Would they even get in trouble? Did the law care if he was harmed in prison? From the acts he had committed, it was only natural for people to want revenge… and from the damage he caused, why would the government try to reign them in? He killed somebody, killed them with nothing more than his fists.

The first time he realized this, Shizuo suspected he had cried. Not much, not hard, not even noticeably to his attackers as they continued to bombard him. However, his cheeks had been wet and his eyes had stung for hours.

The next time, though, he used his discovery as bitter strength. He was a terrible human being, if a human being at all, and deserved the violence he endured. He wasn't the victim here.

Even now, no one was coming for him.

Shizuo couldn't say he blamed them.

He assumed that this time would be like all the others, really.

The guards would enter his cell, taunt him over his failures, defile his multi-colored face. They might shoot him up with doses of his drugs and nutrients, or they might do something entirely different. Shizuo felt his heart quicken involuntarily at the thought, but even then, everything about him was slow. That's all anything was, anymore - slow, until it was too fast to comprehend, and then it was slow again.

He just wanted to go home.

Home didn't want him back.

Fighting the agony from deep within, Shizuo sluggishly lifted his eyes, blinking against the harsh light he had eventually grown used to. Silhouetted against the glow was not a buff guardsman, but a shorter, leaner figure. He only just caught the mottled outline of fur when he fell into sudden sleep.

Rest was rare, when under the drug, and Shizuo found he could never resist it when he was finally allotted a few minutes.

For a time, all he could register were glimpses.

Shizuo faded in and out of consciousness, heavily favoring the latter. At one point, he registered this meant the drugs were letting up, but he was dreamlessly sleeping before it fully sank in.

Once his dreams began again, Shizuo had a hard time deciding what was reality. Was he really being wheeled down a brick hallway, or was he smashing a house of bricks? Was he finally in the sunlight, or was the light of the hallways blinding him once again? As a white-masked man faced him, his brother turned his back. It drove Shizuo insane, so unsure of which images plagues his eyes and which only haunted his mind.

Every now and again, he would awaken enough to register sound. Sometimes there was heavy footfall, and after that, he might hear a few sharp beeps in response. Muffled, anxious voices… Harsh commands… Someone was soothing him, but he didn't really know what they were saying. He tried to respond, but all he managed was a garbled groan. Someone took his hand, and Shizuo didn't have the strength to rip it away.

More sharp beeps, more harsh commands, and the soothing voice wasn't quite so calm anymore.

Shizuo closed his eyes and let the darkness claim him.

He wanted to go to sleep.

He deserved to go to sleep.