Osamu Dazai and the Dark Era (Bungo Stray Dogs 2)

I naturally asked Dazai what was on my mind. “Do you plan on turning this place into a war zone?”

Ango didn’t even flinch. His face was frozen into an ambiguous smirk. He stared at Dazai as if his eyes were locked in place.

“It’s my fault,” Ango said as if he had given up. “I made a mistake. I assumed that this place was the one place we could meet that transcended status or rank. I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble here, so do to me as you will. I won’t resist.”

Ango ought to have known just how horrifying Mafia torture was. There was no hope for him to return to the Special Division for Unusual Powers alive. Even if I took Ango’s side there, nothing would change. There was no way to break out of Dazai’s trap around the bar’s perimeter, and the orphans at the restaurant would be killed if I betrayed the Mafia.

“Ango.” Dazai quietly spoke up, turning his hand back and forth as if to inspect both sides. “If I make just one phone call, my men will immediately surround the place. But they still haven’t made a move. Get out of here before I change my mind.”

Ango tried to say something, but he swallowed his words.

“I’m not sad. I knew from the very beginning,” Dazai said. His face was a blank mask now. “It didn’t matter whether you were with the Special Division for Unusual Powers. I always lose the things I don’t want to lose the most. That’s why I don’t feel anything anymore. The moment you get your hands on something worth going after, you lose it. That’s just how things are. There is nothing worth pursuing at the cost of prolonging a life of suffering.”

I stared at Dazai. We had known each other for a while, but this was the first time he’d ever opened up about himself. I could see a thorn the size of a harpoon wedged deeply into his life.

“Dazai, Odasaku, I am no different. As part of an underground organization whose duties must be kept secret, as a skill user who hunts other skill users, I have been engulfed in the darkness of the government for too long. I shall never walk in the light again.” Ango looked at us and continued, “If there ever comes a time when the Division and the Mafia no longer exist…if we’re ever freed from the confines of our work…do you think we can drink here again like this?”

“Don’t say any more, Ango,” a voice said nearby. It was my voice. “Just don’t.”

Ango shook his head, seemingly hurt. Then he gradually stood from his stool and slowly left the bar, his eyes downcast as if he was listening carefully to the sound of his own footsteps. I figured that was probably the last time I would ever see him. I looked to the seat he had been in to find something placed on the table next to his empty glass. After picking it up, I showed Dazai.

It was the photo we’d taken in that very bar only a few days ago. All three of us were laughing and smiling.

CHAPTER IV

People’s feelings reflect the weather, but the weather doesn’t reciprocate. The bright, warm sun shone down on Yokohama that day as I walked through the city with a frown. I was sure I looked even grumpier than usual, since I was carrying stuff in both hands. I wasn’t actually in a bad mood, though. It was merely a problem of balance because my hands were full with bags of toys and sweets. You’d need a little training to carry these with a smile.

They were for the kids. I’d picked up some presents for them, since I was sure they were getting sick of the refugee life. In fact, they were probably bored to tears hiding in the safe house Dazai prepared for them, so I was a little worried this wouldn’t be enough of a bribe to bring smiles to their faces. After all, what’s enough for adults is never enough for kids.

A young man riding a bicycle passed by while whistling. Young children ran ahead of their mother in pursuit of some great quarry that only they could see. I couldn’t help but feel as though the war between two crime syndicates was taking place on the opposite side of the world.

I thought about Mimic while I walked. I thought about the lonely soldiers who lived to die. Gide said he’d make me understand. Those words were a curse to drag me into battle. But at the same time, they were the heartfelt screams of a young child. The only ones who could understand him were his men or his enemy—and it looked as if he wanted me to become the latter.

I didn’t know whether killing each other was the right thing. At this rate, the war was going to continue until either the Mafia or Mimic was destroyed. Was there no way to end this peacefully somehow? Was there no way I could both understand them and still draw my modest boundary lines?

I also had to think about the kids. I planned on quitting the Mafia once they became independent enough to live on their own without my help. I didn’t know when that would be, but I knew it would come one day. The kids would grow into adults. Some might work at an office, some might become engineers, and others might even become professional baseball players. The oldest apparently dreamed of being in the Mafia like me, which was headache inducing, but, well, I figured I’d be able to talk him out of it. Once that all happened, I could finally toss my gun aside, sit at a desk somewhere I could see the ocean, and start writing my novel.

When I arrived in front of the building, I paused for a moment. The place Dazai found for the kids to stay in was an import license office affiliated with the Mafia. It was a two-story blue building by the ocean that had been baptized with rust from top to bottom by the sea breeze. To the side of the building was a spacious shared parking lot occupied by a moss-colored bus with nothing better to do.

From what I was told, Dazai rented out the entire building, so the employees there had been sent to a completely different office. He always went to extremes, but this measure was also proof that Dazai believed there was a high chance of the kids being targeted. With my hands full, I headed up the stairs while going over in my mind the list of who’d get which toy. After walking down the hallway, I opened the door to the meeting room the kids were supposedly using.

Nobody was inside. The desk had been overturned, there were holes in the wall, and the floor was scuffed, apparently from having something heavy dragged across it. The scattered crayons on the floor were crushed under large footprints. I heard a heavy thud as something hit the floor, then realized I had dropped the bags I was carrying. I began to run almost unconsciously. Rushing out of the meeting room, I descended the staircase in practically a single leap.

Once I got out of the building, I saw the undersized moss-colored bus in the parking lot starting to drive off.

As I looked at the rear window, I saw someone’s hand reach out through the slightly opened curtains. The small hand banged against the glass. I could also see a person’s face in the back seat; it was a young boy whose eyes were swollen from being punched.

The moment the boy saw me, his eyes flew open. It was the oldest kid whose dream was to join the Mafia one day. Noticing my gaze, he hurriedly pulled the curtains wide-open. Behind him were the other kids—he’d opened the curtains to show them to me.

The next moment, a Mimic soldier on the bus grabbed him by the shoulder and viciously threw him backward. The curtains were then yanked shut, and the boy disappeared behind them.

I desperately sprinted after the bus so hard that my kn

ees were almost hitting my chin. The driver apparently noticed and sped up. I rushed out toward the street, placed a hand on the guardrail, then leaped over it to run parallel with the bus. The vehicle gradually drove faster. I reflexively reached under my coat, but I’d left my guns behind that day. What kind of Mafia member leaves his guns behind?

The light at the intersection was about to turn red, but the bus swerved left, barely even slowing down as the surrounding cars honked their horns. I watched where the bus was headed—there was a huge curve that went under the bridge and connected to the highway. I would have no chance of catching up with the bus if it made it that far. I had to end this before then. I dashed up the nearby staircase to the pedestrian overpass in three jumps, then sprinted to the middle before leaping to the nearby traffic overpass.

The overpass was protected with wire netting, which I grabbed onto with one hand to catch myself from falling. Then I climbed up the netting and stood on top of the overpass. Next, I rushed down the concrete until I approached an area that intersected with the road below. At that very moment, the bus began to pass below my feet.