“Is it Toramaru?”
The boy glanced at the mob again. But none of them seemed to be members of a motorcycle gang. They were all normal types, like salarymen and young adults going home from drinking with friends.
“Nah, they’re all ordinary—businessmen, office ladies…a few kids in school uniforms.”
“This late at night? Well, watch for a bit longer, just in case.”
“Got it. I’ll call if I learn anything.”
The boy hung up the phone and approached Sixtieth Floor Street.
Then he noticed something. The density of the crowd seemed to increase as he went in one direction.
What’s going on?
The people were gathered between the intersection next to Tokyu Hands and the building with the bowling alley inside. Right around where those Russians ran the sushi restaurant.
The boy approached, wondering whether there was a hostage situation in there or something—when he passed by a pedestrian and felt a sharp pain on the back of his hand.
“Aah…,” he hissed. There was a little cut on the skin of his hand. He must have scratched it on something when he passed by.
He spun around, wondering whether he should yell at the man.
And then he realized that the scratch was throbbing, pulsing.
…
He stopped. Examined the wound.
……ve.
Just a little scratch. Nothing serious.
l ov e
The bleeding had almost stopped already.
ove lo e love l ve
But the itching didn’t stop. The pulsing was only getting stronger.
I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you Mr. Nasujima I lovelovelove
And then the boy noticed.
I love you I love your flesh your hair your soul blood voice memory future everything
The throbbing wasn’t pain; it was a voice that was echoing throughout his love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love you love love love love love love love lllllloooooooovvvvvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeeee……………………
“…Hey, Aoba?”
The boy was back on the phone; this time his eyes were abnormally red with blood and shining emptily.
“What did you learn?”
“Turns out there was some kind of unannounced idol concert, so it’s just a bunch of people loitering about after it finished. If anything, it’s good cover for messing around.”
“Okay. Then I’ll tell Mr. Mikado about it.”
When the call was over, the boy looked to the man standing across from him.
“Well done,” the man said. “Very good acting.”
“Thank you…Mother,” the boy replied, then wandered unsteadily away among the throng.
The man, Takashi Nasujima, watched him go, chuckling, and said to a man and woman standing at his side, “This is interesting. Mikado Ryuugamine’s actually going to come right out here into the open. And with a motorcycle-gang leader from Saitama and Masaomi Kida, to boot.”
“Yes, Mother,” said the woman, Haruna Niekawa, with empty eyes.
But the man next to her, Shijima, was more confused. “What? Mikado Ryuugamine?”
Nasujima ignored his question. He smiled happily with the information he’d just gained. He’d been giving all the Saikas under his command a constant order—“Bring me any useful information you learn”—and the boy who’d wandered away had done the job admirably.
Nasujima, too, had his eye on Mikado Ryuugamine, the founder of the Dollars. He was considering whether to put him under Saika’s control tonight or threaten him into behaving, like he had with Shijima. But if the boy was going to come here all on his own, that was a happy surprise.
And not only that—there was another bird coming home to roost.
“Masaomi Kida. There’s a name I didn’t expect to hear tonight.”
When Nasujima was a teacher, Kida had caught him sexually harassing Anri Sonohara and used that knowledge to threaten him. He wasn’t a teacher anymore, but at the very least, he still felt the anger and hatred of being mocked and toyed with by a student.
“Sounds good. I can take him over and make him dance naked. I’ll record it, upload it to the Net, then undo his mind control and see how he reacts.”
Nasujima chuckled to himself over his trashy idea, then glanced toward Russia Sushi. “I was thinking of just tearing down the place all at once, but I wouldn’t want to cause too much trouble and put them on edge.”
So he decided to have the crowd lay low for now. More important was how he was going to get Shizuo Heiwajima’s supervisor under his control while inside the restaurant.
Nasujima had a few of his Saika-possessed victims standing outside of Russia Sushi with one of those old cell phone signal jammers that used to be popular years ago. In fact, it had been tampered with to augment the effect. If he walked a few yards closer, his own phone would stop working.
The restaurant’s landline had already been cut, and there were no signs of a broadband or cable TV wire.
Nasujima had cut off all means of contact with the outside world, putting him at an overwhelming advantage over whoever was inside of Russia Sushi.
But he wasn’t completely filled with confidence. Shizuo Heiwajima remained a source of anxiety and a target for his caution.
Not only did he have the trauma of being beaten by Shizuo in the past, but it also seemed that Saika itself viewed Shizuo as a special human being somehow. Therefore, he needed control over Shizuo’s boss—his Achilles’ heel—without drawing Shizuo’s attention. If that monster showed up now, it would all be over.
Nasujima placed a phone call to another number, but it did not get picked up.
“Tsk…damn info dealer. Can’t get him when I actually need him,” Nasujima swore, conveniently ignoring the fact that he’d stolen money from that same man’s office.
Next, he called the secretary of Jinnai Yodogiri, the man he was planning to betray in order to take over his business. As far as Nasujima knew, the secretary’s information network was trustworthy. She might even have knowledge on what Shizuo Heiwajima was doing right about now.
But she, too, did not pick up the call.
“Shit, doesn’t anybody around here answer their damn phone?” he snapped, ignoring the fact that he was calling in the dead of night.
But of course, he didn’t know that at this moment, both Izaya Orihara and Yodogiri’s secretary, Kasane Kujiragi, were in the same building.
Or that, more importantly, Shizuo Heiwajima himself was there with them.
Building under construction—lower levels
Down in the lower levels of the building where Shizuo and Izaya were fighting to the death, the foundation was very strong and mostly complete. The interiors were entirely finished in parts.
But given that the only lights were the fluorescents in the hallways, it was still quite a barren sight and not much better than a cleared-out empty building.
It was in this environment that three young women faced off.
This was not a glamorous scene or a bright and chatty one. Each of the women had suffered equal physical damage.
“Ha-ha! You two are good,” said Mikage Sharaku, a woman built like a street fighter, enjoying herself despite the wounds to her cheeks and arms. “I underestimated you. I shouldn’t have.”
The other two, Vorona and Kasane Kujiragi, gave her expressionless looks.
“In typical times, this phenomenon would cause my entrails to boil, but at present I deny to do battle with you,” said Vorona.
“I agree with her. I have no reason to fight you.”
It wasn’t a three-sided fight. Vorona and Kujiragi were heading to the top of the building, and Mikage was trying to interfere with their progress. On the other hand, Vorona and Kujiragi did not know each other well and were not capable of teaming up against their foe.
If Slon had been here instead of Kujiragi, Vorona would be three or four times
as deadly, but it wasn’t until moments ago that she even learned Kujiragi was capable of fighting at all.
All she knew was that the other woman wasn’t weak but in fact had superhuman athleticism of her own. Mikage sensed as much through their pugilistic exchange. She gave her a cocky smile.
“I guess it’s true that you can’t judge a person by their looks. I never expected someone who looks as brainy as you to be a good fighter.”
“You have overestimated me. If I were truly brainy, I would not be in this place at all. And if I were as powerful as you make me out to be, I would be leading a different life right now.”
“Look, I’m not talking about some vague crap like your ‘strength as a person.’” Mikage looked toward the third woman and said, “Vorona, right? I wish I could’ve fought you at peak condition instead. Though knowing you, I bet you’d just use a gun or something.”
Vorona glared and pursed her lips. She’d suffered bruises all over her body from the steel beams dropped off the building’s roof. And in fact, she did have a gun, which had gotten trapped under the pile of beams.
Still, Vorona knew that even if she were in peak condition, the woman she was fighting was not one to be trifled with. She could be partially armed and still lose that battle.
As evidence of that, Mikage was currently fighting two capable women—even if uncoordinated with each other—and had stopped them short.
In between Vorona’s practiced martial arts and combination attacks, Kujiragi would strike with inhuman reflexes and speed. That was the kind of impromptu combination work that would take down any novice fighter, even a man with bulging muscles.
But Mikage blocked all of Vorona’s hits with her palms and evaded Kujiragi by just a hair. And in the moments when the two women switched attacks, she even countered with kicks of her own.
While Mikage wasn’t getting away scot-free, neither side was able to totally neutralize the other. The fight was turning into a stalemate.
If Shizuo was some djinni or spirit that transcended humanity, then this woman was an amalgamation of advanced technology.
Normally, Vorona would be delighted. If she could destroy this woman, who had pursued the extremes of human strength—or if she herself was utterly destroyed—then at last she could measure the strength of humanity.
But though she was facing an opponent who might fulfill her long-held wish, Vorona was not in the mood to celebrate.
Across from her, guarding the way to the stairs, Mikage smirked. “Want me to let you in on something? Whether you go up there or not, it won’t make a difference,” she said, grimacing with frustration that she couldn’t be there to see it. “This is a fight beyond that kind of interference, I bet.”
The building itself seemed to back her up there, as a dull crash from above traveled downward.
“The combatants up there are a guy whose body quit being human and a guy whose brain quit being human,” Mikage said.
With absolute certainty, Vorona replied, “There is no inevitability that a fight should be valid. There is no possibility of victory over Sir Shizuo. It is the direction of my duty that should stop the beating of his heart.”
“You sure talk some crazy Japanese…,” Mikage said with a grin as she shook out her hands. “As to your statement, I’ll admit, I didn’t think Izaya stood a chance against that monster, either…but the truth is, I’ve never actually seen what he can do.”
“?”
“He’ll happily lead a person to their downfall, but he doesn’t use his own violence to directly destroy a person. I mean, he’s got that whole shtick about loving humanity or whatever.”
Mikage glanced up at the ceiling for a moment, looking anguished that she couldn’t actually be up there to see their fight.
“So I think this might actually be the first time he’s ever used all his power and seriously attempted to kill a human being.”
Building under construction—upper levels
“Ah… What a view.”
Izaya let his eyes travel down from the starless sky overhead.
“I think the view of the night under a sky without stars is the height of beauty. It’s a crystallization of human industry,” he said entirely to himself, the words melting into the darkness.
Izaya Orihara was not, in fact, holding any kind of conversation with the man who knelt at the center of the construction site.
That was Shizuo Heiwajima, grimacing with anguish on the ground.
It was an unthinkable sight: Izaya sat unharmed atop the steel beams of the building frame, looking down at Shizuo, who bore a number of wounds all over his body.
They’d been inflicted by wire and nail-gun traps that Izaya had set up.
All the traps would be instantly fatal to a normal person, but they were little more than scratches to Shizuo. They shouldn’t have had the ability to bring a being like Shizuo Heiwajima to his knees—and yet that was exactly where he was, on the floor of the building.
“…”
Shizuo said nothing. He merely glared up at Izaya, sitting off to the side, his expression pained. In fact, he was finding it difficult to even breathe, not that he wanted to say anything if he could.
It was not pain or blood loss that stole the freedom of his monstrously powerful body.
The first things to assault him were dizziness and fatigue.
There was no way he’d be feeling tired given the situation, but by the time he was aware of the abnormal feeling in him, it was already too late.
All the strength had left his muscles. He could no longer stand on his own.
It was lack of oxygen.
Just as simple as oxygen deprivation. It seemed unlikely, happening in a construction site that was little more than vinyl covering over steel building frames, but it was indeed none other than a trap set by Izaya.
The fire, the crane attack, and all the other traps were nothing more than red herrings meant to hide the existence of this one.
Specifically, it was the fire-extinguishing system that had already been built into the building. Izaya tampered with the pipes from the carbon dioxide gas tank meant to snuff out fires, filling the building with the gas very quickly.
It would not have worked without Izaya’s brilliant calculations, predicting the wind direction and flow of air and guiding Shizuo to the place where the oxygen concentration was lowest.
It was thanks to the unprecedented level of murderous intent in Izaya’s mind—a true aura of lethality shrouding his brain, perhaps—that his concentration hit peak values.
However much gas was being pumped into the area, regardless of it being outside, the spot where Shizuo was standing had dangerously low levels of oxygen. He inhaled, not realizing this, and quickly lost full control of his body.
In fact, if the oxygen levels had been any lower, he might have fallen unconscious. And if the fight had been taking place in an enclosed interior, Shizuo could have died from lack of oxygen.
But sensing that an “enclosed space” was always temporary given Shizuo’s strength when in a rage, Izaya chose to employ this strategy instead.
How does one kill a creature to whom guns and blades mean nothing? The answer, to Izaya, was suffocation.
And as a result, the monster who’d taken a hit from a truck without blinking was now helpless on his knees.
But there was no joy or arrogance on Izaya’s face.
Shizuo Heiwajima was still alive.
That simple fact meant that he was in the presence of a threat to his very life.
Perhaps if there had been no wind blowing between the buildings or if the night had been perfectly still, the situation would have been different. In any case, it was fortunate for him that his strategy was effective enough to stop Shizuo in his tracks in an outdoor environment at all.
How many minutes would it take before he recovered from the lack of oxygen? How many seconds?
Izaya couldn’t put on his usual confident grin, because any estimates based on normal hum
an physiology meant nothing here. Normally he would have been running and darting about, smiling cockily as he fled, but there were two reasons he wore no such smile now.
He was full to the brim with loathing for his opponent.
And he knew, on an instinctual level, that one wrong movement would lead to the end of his life.
I don’t care if I die.
But I don’t want it to be at the expense of this monster surviving.
The monster can’t live among the human beings in a world without me.
Pretending to be human, pinning down humanity with his strength.
Love, hope, malice, plotting, intelligence, technique, experience.
All the things that humanity has built, he ruins.
“…Yeah, that’s right.”
The words spilled right out of his mouth.
But whether they were meant for anyone aside from himself, as his eyes narrowed with turgid black emotions, no one could say. Not even the man who said them.
“I ought to kill you, whether there’s a good rationale or not.”
Any display of emotion had disappeared from Izaya’s face. He stood atop the steel beam and took out an object.
It was an old-fashioned box of matches, with the name of some business or other on it—the same implement he’d used to burn the chess pieces in his apartment a while ago. He lit a match and dropped the little spark below.
The wind had already blown free the extinguishing gas that was meant to remove the oxygen that might fuel any flames.
Now there was a different kind of gas surrounding Shizuo.
The flammable gas that had been flowing across the outside area from the moment that he’d first emerged there.
As he watched the match falling toward him, Shizuo could also sense the odor of the gas filling the space around him. But no one could say whether he currently had the brainpower needed to process that information accurately.
All that was certain was he hadn’t recovered from the damage the lack of oxygen had caused, and he wouldn’t be able to generate the same kind of wind he had earlier when kicking down the door.
So he couldn’t leap out into the open air. The gas surrounded him on all sides. He was trapped.
Durarara!!, Vol. 13 Page 4