“Huh?”
Before Masaomi could turn around in shock, a hand fell on his shoulder.
“Whah?”
Masaomi spun on his heels and saw an unfamiliar man standing there.
“Hi, nice to meet you. It’s, um…Masaomi Kida, right?” the man said, smiling amiably.
When he looked at the man’s face, a single emotion rose in Masaomi’s chest: vague anxiety. The same sensation he’d felt when people started to rally around him.
Masaomi felt his entire body wrapped in an odd prickling alienation that he couldn’t quite describe.
“…And you are?” he asked suspiciously.
The older man held out his hand and beamed. “I’m Izaya Orihara. Information is my business.”
“Nice to meet you.”
The boy recalled the impishly innocent yet cunning and crafty smile of Izaya and clicked his tongue in irritation. “There, see? I just remembered some shit I didn’t want to think about. Enough of the depressing talk!”
He crossed his legs in front of him and changed the topic. “Oh, right, this is depressing, too. So what was the deal? Who beat up this Horada guy last night?”
“I told you… Um, the Black Rider. I mean, technically it was the guy the rider was with who did Mr. Horada.”
“…Wasn’t Higa telling me the exact same story a while back? Right around the time I returned… It was Shizuo, wasn’t it? They didn’t go back for a rematch with him, did they? If so, I don’t have a lot of sympathy. In fact, if that was the case, I’d tell them to get the hell away.”
His tone was light and jokey, but there was a sheen of sweat on his expression. It was the face of someone who knew the terror that this man named Shizuo commanded.
One of the boy’s companions mumbled, “Er, well… Higa’s group is in a panic, too. They got whacked by some freak wearing a white gas mask. Said their limbs got tied down by…shadows or some weird shit like that.”
“…What is that, some ninjutsu arts or something?”
“I have no idea. Anyway, the Black Rider gave the gas mask dude a ride, and they just took off…”
With that rather unhelpful report, Masaomi was back to a serious expression again. “I wonder what’s up with that Black Rider.”
Anyone who lived in Ikebukuro knew the urban legend of the Black Rider. When his old friend moved to Tokyo, Masaomi had bragged about the rider—but in truth, he didn’t know the identity or intentions of the strange being.
“All I’ve heard is that he’s supposed to be a member of the Dollars.”
Dollars.
The expressions on those in yellow around him slowly began to evolve.
Many of them believed that the slashing incidents were the work of the Dollars, and an equal number of them found the concept of a color gang without a color to be eerie and unsettling.
But for whatever reason, all of the Yellow Scarves who were actually hurt in the attacks only claimed that they “didn’t remember” what happened. For the Yellow Scarves, the police, and the media, the full picture of the slasher was still unclear.
Now that the slasher was in hiding, the news had moved on to newer topics, and the incident was beginning to fade from the public’s mind. But for those who had felt the madness of that incident at close range, those who knew some of the victims, the truth of the matter was carved into them just as deeply as those wounds the victims had suffered.
“I have no intention of forgiving whoever cut down my people,” Masaomi announced, his foot perched boldly up on top of a drum canister. He got down and strode through the meaningful glances of the crowd toward the exit, mumbling to himself.
It was a sentiment he had uttered over and over to himself since he had first returned to this place several days ago. As though he was trying to convince himself of something.
“Shit… How dare you suck me back in…”
“Who’s there?!” echoed a sudden shout of anger off the factory walls.
It could have been the bellow of the landowner come to see what was happening—but the shout came from the members of the group standing watch outside.
“What’s up?” Masaomi asked promptly and received an answer from one of the guards just as promptly.
“They said some girl was trying to spy on us… They’re chasing her now.”
“Girl?”
It was probably just some bystander passing by who peered in out of curiosity from all the commotion inside, Masaomi thought. But then he remembered that several members were guarding each entrance to the property, so that seemed unlikely.
“I want to talk to her. Catch her, make it quiet.”
The factory was not particularly large, but there was scrap material and junked vehicles piled up outside the structure, which might make catching her difficult if she hid among the piles.
Masaomi headed outside to assist in the search, heard the bustle of his fellow members following behind him, and held up a hand. “We don’t need a big group. Just ten will do.”
If the entire gang ran around the property, they would surely draw notice. The last thing a big group like theirs needed was the loss of one of the few places they could meet in private because someone reported them to the police.
Masaomi knew that the authorities had stepped up their crackdown on the color gangs in recent years. He wanted to protect their space at all costs. They had been hanging here since the days when he was their full-time leader. Something about the space, something distinct from say, a nightclub, reminded him of the vibes of his hometown. He didn’t want to lose the space if he could help it.
Not that it’s up to me. I don’t own the building, Masaomi thought wryly to himself. It’s funny…after I already gave up the place once.
The sun was already down, and without many streetlights in the vicinity, the factory grounds were surprisingly dark. It seemed to Masaomi that she could easily get away under these circumstances. He tried to imagine the intruder.
They said it was a woman—probably a curious tabloid writer. If she was an official of some kind, she would have just marched right through the entrance.
It could be someone from an opposing color gang, but there were few of those around these days, and Masaomi’s team did not beef with any of them.
Except for the Dollars.
The Dollars were a unique organization that expanded its reach through the Internet. Masaomi himself had registered on their site for kicks ages ago.
About a year ago, he heard that they were having their first real-life meeting. Masaomi did not attend. He assumed that by gathering as a group and using that power, they would be no different from the Yellow Scarves.
Then again, if I had really dug deep into the Dollars and become an officer…maybe I could have prevented this from happening.
It was with that thought in mind that Masaomi started walking the opposite direction as the one the lookouts had run. The lot was small enough that it would be faster to circle around from the other side.
Suddenly, he got a subtle sensation of something moving. Masaomi was once again plunged into a vague sense of unease.
No, not quite.
The unease…has always been there.
Masaomi quickened his pace, trying to process the swirling, bubbling emotions within him.
The first time I felt it was when people started to gather around me, when all I did was fight.
He took step after step through the darkness, classifying the emotion that had plagued him from past to present. The usual smirking grin on Masaomi’s face was completely gone. Only the unease grew.
The vague unease I’d forgotten came back to my mind when I first met Saki.
The gloom of the sky covered his heart like a suffocating blanket, fanning the flames of his smoldering concerns.
And when I met Izaya after that, the vagueness of that unease turned into rock-hard anxiety.
The farther he got from the entrance to the building, the thicker the darkness became, until he could no
longer see his feet.
But Saki…helped me forget that dread.
As his pace increased, Masaomi’s state of mind gradually shook more and more violently.
And when the accident happened…I broke away from Saki…and left the Yellow Scarves…
The past flashed before his eyes. His pulse quickened by the moment.
That should have been the end of the dread.
Thump, thump. His heart thudded.
I can’t forgive…whoever attacked Anri and the guys who used to be my friends…
His feet hit the ground faster and faster, matching that rhythm.
That’s why I came back. It’s the only reason.
He suddenly realized that large raindrops were falling.
So…why is it happening now?
As the rhythm of the rain picked up to join him, it churned up Masaomi’s unease into a thicker froth.
Why is the anxiety rushing back stronger than it ever did before?
He felt as though he was in reach of the nature of that unease.
Masaomi realized that he was in a full sprint around the back of the factory.
Run.
Run, run, run.
Just run.
Not to a specific destination, but to escape from the chasing shadows.
Spurring legs onward in danger of cramps—forward, ever forward.
She only wanted to know.
The truth.
The truth of a matter that involved her.
The cost of that truth was the scampering of a mouse on the run from a cat.
In the cramped factory lot, there were only so many places to hide.
She slid into the shadow of a pile of scrap material, shrank to lower her profile.
The escapee judged that hiding would be a more effective option than running like mad.
She couldn’t feel anything.
The only sensation was the mental shock of what she had just seen.
She spoke, only for the purpose of calming her frayed nerves.
“Why…?”
She knew that no one could answer her.
“Why…why was Kida…in a place like that…?”
The girl in glasses asked the void.
The sky visible between the piles of junk was covered in dark clouds, silently dispersing her query to nothingness.
By way of answer, a cold droplet hit her cheek.
As she watched, rain began to fall around her.
A curtain of water and sound, covering everything beneath it.
Fshh, fshh, fshh, fshh.
Anri Sonohara’s heart calmed itself into that wave of radio static.
Fshh, fshh, fshh, fshh.
Chapter 4: Is There a Problem?
Apartment building, near Kawagoe Highway, Ikebukuro
It had been one very tumultuous day since Shingen Kishitani came to stay in Shinra’s apartment.
There was no chance to speak with him on the previous night, as Shingen had immediately collapsed onto the sofa and began snoring tremendously.
When Shinra came back from the convenience store, he found Celty silently absorbed in her online chat and his father sprawled out on the sofa, gas mask still in place.
He sighed in a rare indication of lament at the bizarre, otherworldly sight.
When his exceedingly self-absorbed father finally woke twenty hours later, he nimbly zipped into the bathroom with an agility that showed no sign of headache after oversleeping for so long. One hour after that…
“Ahh, I feel much better after that shower. Gotta love new apartment buildings. The water temperature adjustments are very smooth and pleasant,” Shingen mumbled to himself as he emerged from the bathroom, white gas mask still in place.
He took a look around the apartment, then finally noticed the figures of Celty and Shinra at the dining table, wirelessly playing handheld games.
“By the way, thanks for coming to pick me up yesterday, Celty. Just put the cost for ferrying me on Shinra’s tab over there. Hmm? Oh, Shinra, you’re here. Hi. Also, I’m here.”
Shingen was wearing his white coat over his underwear like a bathrobe. Celty flopped over the table, unable to even summon the energy to poke fun at his outfit. Shinra took his father to task in her place.
“I see you haven’t changed a bit, Dad. If you want to feel fully refreshed, you should probably take the mask off.”
“Isn’t it normal to make sure that nothing filthy enters the body? This is the Tokyo Desert, an accumulation of malice like a sandstorm. A gritty mass of teeming humanity. Get it, because sand is grit—”
“If you have to explain the wordplay, it’s not a very good joke.”
“Plus, I don’t think complaining about sand is very smart, Dad. Desert sands that get carried elsewhere can actually bring nutrients to the soil.”
Shingen shook his head, unperturbed by Celty and Shinra’s cold responses. “You don’t understand… The world is full of unclean ruffians of the sort we saw yesterday. Didn’t they just say there was an armed robbery recently? Assuming all people are like them, this lowers the risk of them being able to identify my face. Long live the gas mask! I figured you would appreciate my consideration in painting the mask white so that you could identify me at a distance.”
“Who else even wears a gas mask? Does this look like a chemical weapons war zone to you? In fact…isn’t it because of that stupid outfit that you got singled out for harassment?”
“You may be right… But who were they, anyway? They wore yellow bandannas… Mimics of some American street gangs, perhaps?” Shingen muttered, rubbing his side as he recalled the boys who had harassed him the previous night.
Shinra sipped his coffee and answered, “Oh, the Yellow Scarves? They started up just around the time you left for the United States. They don’t mess around with thieving or stickups or anything like that, though. They got into a tussle with another team a while back and supposedly settled down, but it seems they’re on the rise again, for some reason or another.”
“I see. Well, it’s normal for gangs in America to kill one another over territory squabbles. In that sense, at least Japan is peaceful—not that it changes the fact that I was mercilessly and unfairly attacked. Let them squabble with another gang, and the twain can fall to ruin and melt into the sewers together!” Shingen ranted grandiosely.
“That’s absolutely insane,” Celty typed in disgust—then fell into a gloomy mood when she remembered what had come up in chat yesterday.
The Yellow Scarves and Dollars were already in a hostile mood, and this had most certainly turned the Yellow Scarves into an enemy. The problem was that this incident had nothing to do with either the Dollars or the slasher. They were the ones who had cast the first stone, so they couldn’t make such a big deal about the affair, Celty thought. But the anxiety was still there.
As one of the few people who knew the identity of the slasher, Celty felt she had some responsibility to mediate and clear up the misunderstanding—but it was difficult to turn that thought into action, knowing Anri’s state of mind. On top of that, it was a story that beggared belief, so even if she was able to get through to them, it wasn’t likely to satisfy the Yellow Scarves and Dollars entirely.
Both the Dollars and the slasher were important to her. She wanted to do something to help, but if anyone was going to shoulder the most pain, it would end up being the Yellow Scarves, to whom she had no connection, and such a self-serving outcome would only leave her with a bad aftertaste. She had no good ideas.
As she sat there, idly tapping the table with her fingers, Shingen asked curiously, “Ah, Celty. You seem to be irritated about something. Empty stomach? That’s no good. A courier needs to be broad and welcoming in spirit at all times. I noticed you furiously smacking away at that cheap PDA yesterday… Trouble with the pocketbook?”
Celty considered what sort of withering retort he deserved, but fortunately, a narrow-eyed Shinra spoke for her.
“If that’s your conclusion, maybe you
should pay up what you owe her for the trip.”
“I told you, that goes on your tab…”
“Whatever Celty makes goes right into our family fund. It’s like you’re spending with one hand to pay the other. Just ante up.”
“Hmm. In that case, I’ll have to wriggle out of it like usual.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a blade tangled around Shingen’s neck. It took less than a second for the wave of black particles extending from Celty’s hand to reach him. The pointed shadow was stopped less than an inch from piercing his carotid artery, freezing him entirely. As he waited, she typed into her PDA and showed him the message.
“Oh? Wriggle out of what?”
“…I see your skill has grown since I saw you before. You can do this with your shadow now? This was all just a test, you see. I’m afraid you’ve fallen just short of a passing grade, but if you release me this instant, I might see fit to bump your score to— Ow-ow-ow-ow, you’re stabbing me, you’re stabbing me! The tip of your shadow is stabbing me, Celty! Curses! How dare you destroy my skin membrane, you creature of unidentified matter! Oh, I’d study you so hard if you weren’t outside my field of experti— Ow, ow, ow-ow-ow-ow!”
Shingen’s expression was hidden behind the mask, but his desperation was clear from the way his limbs flopped around, trying to pry the shadow away from his neck. Once he realized that this would get him nowhere, he abandoned all pride and begged his son for help.
“Shinra, your flesh and blood is in mortal peril. You see, I am testing you and thus acting out my own so-called peril…but if I might be perfectly honest, I am in all actuality truly in danger! Gosh, I don’t know how to say this… You’re my son. You understand, don’t you?”
“Of course I get it,” Shinra said flatly. He strode over to Shingen, then pulled the wallet out of his helpless father’s coat and tossed it to Celty.
“Wha—!” Shingen yelped, stunned. Celty pulled a pair of ten thousand–yen bills out and chucked the wallet back at Shingen. The shadowy restraints vanished, the black thorns dispersing cleanly into the apartment air.
“Thanks for your business.”
Durarara!!, Vol. 3 (Novel) Page 6