11 Years Prior
The snow had long since swallowed the world around him. It'd been years since he'd left St. Petersburg, but still, the unrelenting chill had found harbor within his bones. Slowly eating away at the person he once was.
Fyodor had once thought he was finally beginning to understand the world and his place in it, but ever since his brother's death, it now felt as though he were looking through a kaleidoscope.
His world had fractured into fragments scattered across infinity, and deep within his heart, he knew that things would simply never be the same again.
It was funny though, because he and Mikhail had shared so many moments. So why, when he tried to recall what he looked like, could he only remember that image of him lying lifeless in the snow? So still, where he'd once been so full of life.
It hardly mattered that nine thousand kilometers now stood between him and Mikhail's final resting place. He could never escape that day that had haunted his very soul ever since.
In the distance, the flickering of lights caught Fyodor's eye. They were faint through the onslaught of snow, but still something that held the promise of warmth.
No matter how temporary it would be.
He continued to walk towards the lights until finally, a sheet steel sign stood before him, teetering slightly in the wind.
добро пожаловать в Владивосток. Welcome to Vladivostok.
Letters that had once been so delicately carved in white onto a warm blue background, now found themselves faded as rust and degradation gnawed away at something that used to be a beautiful declaration of home.
It was clear that no one had cared for the sign in a very long time.
Fyodor pulled his jacket closer to his body, as the snowstorm began to grow worse. As he walked, the imprints left by his boots were quickly covered by the snow, as though he'd never even been there in the first place. As though he were a mere ghost of a person.
Shops began to pop up all around him, as he continued to make his way through the city. The inviting smell of pie wafting toward him from a nearby bakery threw him back to a simpler time when he'd been so sure of his place in the world. Except now he was thinking of Mikhail and he was back there in the snow while a fire burned away the only home he had ever had in the distance and his brother's eyes were staring sightlessly past him and the world was fracturing and he didn't know what to do and Mikhail was dead and Mikhail was dead and Mikhail was dead and Mikhail was dead and Mikhail was dead...
He needed a drink.
The lights of a nearby bar flickered invitingly, as he made his way over.
Its title was written invitingly, curling in a delicate font.
Обордователь. Oborudovatel.
Opening the door, he was immediately greeted with the sight of warm lighting, laughter, and a large number of people he easily identified as maritime workers.
Grabbing a stool at the bar, Fyodor grabbed the attention of a bartender, before ordering a grain vodka and Borodinsky bread. At first, the barman just gave him a weird look and looked like he was going to ask him to leave, which Fyodor surmised was due to his age. However, after placing a generous amount of rubles down on the counter that he'd earned working odd jobs and the occasional pickpocketing, the barman just nodded and got to work.
It didn't take long before the glass of clear liquid and bread were placed before him. Fyodor took a bit of the bread first, savoring the taste, before taking a sip of the vodka and allowing the flavors to mix. Meanwhile, the numerous conversations of strangers danced in his ears.
"...and this guy tells me that I'm the one in the wrong. I mean what the actual fuck, man. He's the one who got with my wife..."
"...you need to listen to me! Privatization is destroying this country..."
"...bro, I'm not lying! I really did fight that bear and win..."
"...and look there's this new job for sending bulk shipments of imports to Japan. The job pays about a thousand rubles per month, which isn't great, but with the state of things right now, I guess we just gotta take what we can get, y'know?"
The world froze.
Imports to Japan.
A cruel bandaged face flashed before his mind's eye.
"Run! Fedya run!" Mikhail pleaded, but Fyodor just shook his head as tears began to stain his cheeks.
"N-n-no. No, Mikhail! I'm not leaving you!"
"Fedya please I-."
Mikhail's voice cut out and his body lay still.
Lifeless. Emotionless. Dead.
His bread and vodka were now forgotten, as Fyodor stood and made his way over to the group of men. His eyes scanned the group before he managed to single out the man who'd mentioned the job. He was tall and rugged from a life obviously filled with work in grueling conditions. Someone who might've intimidated him two years prior, but now left him feeling nothing.
"Are they still hiring maritime workers for the import to Japan?"
The man's head turned to study him, "what are you, fifteen?"
Yes, his mind supplied.
"Eighteen," he lied. "I just look younger than I am."
"Sure kid," the man laughed, turning away, "sure."
Irritation coursed through Fyodor's veins. This man would not ignore him. He simply couldn't afford such an outcome, if he wanted to ever make things right.
"Are they still hiring maritime workers for the import to Japan?" He repeated, making sure to enunciate every word carefully.
The man side-eyed him before sighing, "yes, but look kid, you're young and stick thin. This job involves heavy manual labor, long hours, and poor ventilation. Trust me when I say that it's not something you'd want to do. Just go home, okaykid?"
Home. It'd been two years since he'd had such a thing. A commodity he doubted he'd ever truly have again.
"I don't have one," Fyodor replied truthfully, indignation coating his tone, "and I need this job, so please if you would be so kind as to let me know how I can join, I'd really appreciate it."
The man studied him for a moment, "kid, look I-"
"Oh for fucks sake, Ivan," one of the man's friends cut in. "Just tell the kid. We started working on the ships when we were even younger than I'd assume he is. I swear, you're always like this. Just stop being such a hypocrite and tell him."
"Dmitri-" Ivan started in protest before quickly being cut off by another one of the men.
"You should listen to what he's saying, Ivan. I was younger than any of you when I first started working there, and none of you ever seemed to care."
"Of course we cared, Smerdyakov," another man protested, "and Ivan's right. Kids shouldn't be working on the boats at that age. We should all know that from personal experience."
"God Alyosha, are you ever not patronizing?" Smerdyakov replied with a roll of his eyes, before turning his attention back to Fyodor. "Look kid, I've heard about the job, Ivan's talking about. So, if you want in, just talk to Grigory down at the docks. Let him know I sent you and he'll get you in."
"Thanks," Fyodor said, anticipation flooding through him at the opportunity that had finally presented itself. Maybe he could finally make things right.
Without another word, Fyodor turned on his heel, and quickly made his way out the door. Meanwhile, his forgotten vodka and bread still waited for him back at the bar.
Waiting for someone who would never come back.
Forgotten vodka and bread that would soon be sustenance for naught but the city's rats.
Present
Kunikida slammed to a halt a few meters away from Dostoevsky, pulling his gun from its holster, and firing.
Once. Twice. Thrice.
Dostoevsky didn't even flinch. Instead, he just turned his head to stare directly down the barrel of the gun, as the sound of gunfire reverberated throughout the air.
And against all odds, he continued to just stand there. A laugh building in his throat.
Alive and unmarred by lead.
"You haven't been counting," Dostoevsky admonished. "I have. You already wasted your clip on Chuuya, and now you've run out of bullets. So blinded by your rage, you didn't even notice. I would still be careful with that gun though, if I were you. Did you know that if the barrel of the gun is close enough to someone you can still hurt or even kill them with a blank? Unfortunately for you, getting close enough to do that would mean I'd also be close enough to reach out and kill you before you even managed to pull the trigger. It's truly quite the conundrum that we've found ourselves in, isn't it?"
"Why are you doing this? You didn't have to kill her! She didnothingto you!" Kunikida was shaking where he stood, as his eyes prickled with tears. His gaze was stuck now, staring down, shellshocked, at the corpse that had once been one of his closest friends.
"Perhaps," Dostoevsky said, "but neither did my brother when your friend led him to the slaughter."
"Dazai was a child," Chuuya snapped from where he lay on the ground. "What happened was awful, but he was just a kid. Itwasn'this fault. You both were just dealt shitty circumstances that were out of both of your control."
"You don't understand," Dostoevsky said, "youcan'tunderstand how wrong you are. I mean you were born of a science experiment , you've never experienced the loss of a real family. I'm sure Dazai's tried to be nice and tell you that you're the real one of flesh and blood. Perhaps, come to think of it, it's not even him trying to be nice to you, but rather bestowing a kindness upon himself in believing that the person with whom he finds himself closest to is real. Alas, that is naught but a lie, because all you are iscode,"Dostoevsky spat. "You can't even begin to comprehend the difficulties and agony of life and loss. Perhaps, you can simulate such emotions, but you can never truly feel them in the way someone with an actual soul can. I suppose it hardly matters now though. With those wounds, I don't think you'll be leaving this place alive."
"Fuck you." Chuuya's fists tightened and he forced himself into a sitting position, despite Dazai's immediate protest and the pain that wracked through his body at the movement.
"Even if I'm code or not real orwhatever the fuck else,at least I cansimulateenough goddamn empathy to know that no matter how noble the reason, enslaving the minds of an entire population is wrong. I know you think I'm an idiot, because I'm not as gifted as you or Dazai with your fancy words and shit, but I can still think for myself. I agree with you, the world is fucked up and we'd be better off if we set aside our differences and worked together to build some kind of utopia, where everyone has a chance at a good life, through socialism or communism or whatever the fuck, but forcing everyone to do so would destroy the autonomy that both require to truly exist . Your world would not be a utopia, because it would be a dictatorship ruled by your whims. Like I said earlier, doing this will only make you as bad as the oppressors that you so claim to despise, because again, you'll beforcingeveryone to enactyour own willno matter hownobleyour so-called cause."
"I've had enough of this," Dostoevsky snapped. "There's no point in trying to make any of you understand something you simply lack the intellect for. So, how about we bring an end to this?"