Durarara!!, Vol. 5

by Ryohgo Narita

  Mai: He had a bunch of girls.

  Mai: I was jealous.

  TarouTanaka: Yes, very envious. And very impressive that he managed to stop a robber. He sounds like a policeman.

  Kuru: Speaking of police, I just witnessed something interesting in town.

  TarouTanaka: What was that?

  Kuru: There were several dozen men congregated around a pedestrian bridge, shouting about something. They were completely packing the area.

  Mai: Packed like sardines.

  TarouTanaka: Ohhh.

  Kuru: I believe they belonged to a motorcycle gang… Speaking of which, is everyone here aware of the Dollars? They’re a wonderfully wicked and terrifying field of evil flora, a demonic darkness making its nest in Ikebukuro.

  Mai: Dollars.

  TarouTanaka: Umm, okay.

  Saika: i don’t really know

  Kuru: Some say the name is short for “doleful callers,” or “gang of people who are only worth a dollar,” or “gang that will kill for a dollar,” or the “devastating, overwhelming, ludicrous, lascivious, apathetic, raucous squad,” but at any rate, the point is that they’re a very mysterious gang! Despite being a classic color-based street gang, they rep no color at all in order to blend in with the city! It’s an insane organization!

  Mai: Really cool.

  TarouTanaka: “Insane organization”? That’s a bit much.

  Kuru: But they are nothing if not insane. I mean, they’re a group that has no discernable purpose or identity! If they were a typical street gang, they’d be taking out stress on the rest of the city, or doing it for money, or aligning themselves with a more formal yakuza operation—at least that would be fathomable. But the Dollars have no such thing.

  Mai: No such what?

  TarouTanaka: You’re thinking way too hard about this.

  Kuru: The Dollars have no fixed form. After all, how is one to identify a member of the group? Perhaps even ordinary students or housewives might be Dollars. Even a friendly classmate who comes up to say hello on the street might secretly be one of the Dollars… And we don’t even know how many of them there are.

  TarouTanaka: Well, yes, but…

  TarouTanaka: But are you sure it’s not just like any old club? There are plenty of places where anyone can claim to be part of it. It’s like people who rep themselves as “Residents of Saitama,” or “Metropolitans,” or whatever.

  Kuru: I believe you are misrepresenting the issue. The Dollars are not just a descriptor, but also a group; one must identify with the group in order to gain affiliation, and online or not, there is a type of community that they share. It may be a very loose network, but they are still gathered together under the Dollars’ name. Don’t you find that rather terrifying?

  Mai: Scary.

  TarouTanaka: Scary how, exactly?

  Kuru: For example, it’s as if there are security cameras all over the city, only the cameras are the eyes of the crowd. And unlike an objective camera, the observer paints the scene with their subjectivity. Also, the subject being observed has no idea that their actions are under observation. One wrong step out in public, and the Dollars’ members watching you might detect and seize upon your most tender weakness.

  Mai: Scary.

  TarouTanaka: You’re thinking too hard. It’s not like that.

  Kuru: …For now, I will choose to ignore the question of why you would so stridently take the side of the Dollars, a group no more important than a street gang. But how can you be so certain that the Dollars would never take advantage of unsuspecting people? They are a gang! Their very presence is antisocial in nature!

  Mai: Gang up on the gang.

  TarouTanaka: You’ve got a point.

  Mai: Ouch.

  Mai: I got pinched.

  TarouTanaka: But while they might be a gang, I’ve heard it’s more like a group that got together over a little joke on the Internet. Yeah, maybe they have IRL meetups every once in a while, but not to go on a rampage and terrorize people.

  Kuru: I’ll ask you again.

  Kuru: How can you be sure of that?

  Kuru: Let’s say you are a member of the Dollars. Could you claim that no one else in the group has any ulterior motives just because you don’t? There are many people in the Dollars, and I hear that no one knows who the others are… But if that were the case, don’t you think someone could claim membership and use that to get away with something truly terrible?

  TarouTanaka: Yes, you might have a point.

  Saika: um

  Saika: please don’t fight

  TarouTanaka: Uh, first, we’re not fighting, lol.

  Kuru: Of course not. I do not have a shred of personal hatred or anger toward TarouTanaka. The fact that we are members of the same chat room makes me like him enough to give him a kiss, in fact. Smooch!

  Mai: Gross.

  Mai: Ouch.

  Mai: I got pinched again.

  Saika: i’m sorry

  TarouTanaka: Seriously, why do you keep apologizing?

  TarouTanaka: Anyway, I understand that there’s room to worry about that kind of stuff, but I haven’t heard any bad rumors about the Dollars raising trouble in Ikebukuro, and even if they were, it wouldn’t be any worse than the usual street fights that happen all the time.

  Kuru: But that’s not the case. Madness spins wildly through Ikebukuro, and the power of centrifugal force ensures that the lighter, inferior parts wind up at the outer edge of the rotation.

  Mai: Spinny-spinny-spin.

  Kuru: I understand that members of the Dollars have been picking fights with people from other prefectures. In fact, it was less picking fights than forcing them. Pounding their victims’ faces to force the confrontation upon them, and whether they wanted to fight or not, they would beat and beat and beat and beat and beat their targets. It must have been quite a sight.

  TarouTanaka: Huh?

  Mai: I heard that, too.

  Mai: That the Dollars beat up

  Mai: some people in Saitama.

  TarouTanaka: Is this true?

  TarouTanaka: Do you have a source for that info?

  Kuru: Are you familiar with the social media site “Pacry”?

  TarouTanaka: I do have an account.

  Kuru: What a fortuitous coincidence! Unlike with the site Mixi, one need only apply to register as a user. There is no need to receive an invite from a friend. Oh, pardon me—I did not mean that to sound as though you, TarouTanaka, have no friends. But I suppose that would depend upon your future actions. I cannot register, as I am below the required age for Mixi.

  TarouTanaka: So where on Pacry is it?

  Kuru: Oh! Please forgive me! I got carried away.

  Kuru: If you do a community search for “Saitama Motorcycle Gang Problem,” you will find a group based on that topic. I would look there first.

  TarouTanaka: I’ll do a search.

  Kuru: One of the topics on that board should be titled “About the Dollars.” That is where you will find the information I gleaned, but if it turns out that the account was falsified, then I will have confused you for nothing, I’m afraid.

  Kuru: If that is the case, I will apologize most profusely and present my body and mind to you as payment… My body is a meager thing, its value questionable at best, but I would be honored if you found it to be a physical comfort to you.

  Mai: Naughty.

  TarouTanaka: Hang on, I’m checking now.

  Kuru: You ignore me? Why, I am shrouded in desolation and loneliness. You must make things right by me.

  Mai: Naughty.

  Kuru: Someone claiming to be the Dollars started a fight with a motorcycle gang in Saitama. If this is an act orchestrated by some conspirator, then it was facilitated by the lack of a gang color. After all, anyone can represent the Dollars and frame the group for a crime!

  Saika: that’s scary

  TarouTanaka: Sorry, I was just looking it up.

  TarouTanaka: I’ve got some stuff to do after this, so I’ll be leavi
ng now.

  Kuru: In that case, I suppose we shall take our leave as well.

  Saika: good night

  Mai: Good night, then.

  TarouTanaka: Thank you.

  TarouTanaka: Oh, and I’m sorry, Kuru. I think I might have upset you.

  Kuru: Not at all. Do not let it trouble you.

  TarouTanaka: Thank you.

  TarouTanaka: Anyway, that’s all.

  TarouTanaka: So long, everyone.

  TarouTanaka has left the chat.

  Kuru: Good night to you all. Golden Week is only just beginning, so please do be careful out there… I notice that Setton, Kanra, and Bacura are not here today.

  Mai: Good-bye.

  Kuru has left the chat.

  Mai has left the chat.

  Saika: good night

  Saika: i’m sorry

  Saika: i was too late

  Saika has left the chat.

  The chat room is currently empty.

  The chat room is currently empty.

  The chat room is currently empty.

  .

  .

  .

  Interlude or Prologue B, Vorona (Crow) and Slon (Elephant)

  Russia

  A comment mumbled in Russian traveled on the breeze to eventually settle upon the land.

  “…Strange… This is not right.”

  A troubled man stood against the backdrop of endless fields.

  He was not especially tall, but his figure was broad, and the thick, fleshy muscles that adorned his frame made him look larger than others his height.

  The man was probably around forty years old. He wore a white coat over a white jacket, which gave him an appearance that a distant viewer might mistake for a polar bear. A number of scarves were wrapped around the top of his head and face, so that only a little gap was left, issuing periodic puffs of exhaust like a steam engine.

  “Yep, not right. Oh dear, this could be trouble.”

  There were about ten other men around him. One of them, an older man with glasses and a grave expression, asked, “What is the matter, Comrade Lingerin?”

  “Hmm? Oh…ohh. Listen to this, Drakon. It’s all wrong.”

  “What is it?” Drakon asked, looking down at the first man’s hands.

  There were two round pots, with narrow openings. Lingerin had a hand stuck into the mouth of either one. “Look at this, Drakon.”

  “…”

  Lingerin lifted his hands to show the other man. His looked somewhat like a boxer.

  Drakon’s calm expression never wavered. Without a drop of sweat, he asked, “What has happened, Comrade Lingerin?”

  Lingerin waved his arms, his face deadly serious.

  “My hands are stuck.”

  Silence churned through the group. Drakon merely lifted his glasses and set them down again.

  “This is…quite a turn of events.”

  “I was trying to get the contents out, and then my hands got stuck. See?”

  Anyone else would have scolded him for trying to tease or rolled their eyes at the bad joke, but Drakon gave him a perfectly serious answer—though it was given in resignation.

  “Well, if it should come to it, you could always spend the rest of your life like that.”

  “No, I couldn’t! How will I eat or use the toilet?”

  “Nothing is impossible for Mother Russia. Throughout her vast lands there are surely those who would accept you warmly, Comrade, and give life to the seeds of a new generation.”

  “Hmm…? Have I just been killed off? Why do I feel as if you have skipped over quite a lot of time, Drakon?” Lingerin asked.

  Drakon fixed his glasses again and said, “I shall make my point directly, then. Please give up on life—both physically and mentally.”

  “For being direct, that was certainly an indirect way to tell me to die. It’s giving me the willies!”

  “It was a joke, Comrade Lingerin,” Drakon said without batting an eye, his features as placid as a wax figure. He decided to clarify his wishes.

  “If you die, please wait until after we have overcome this challenge.”

  Lingerin turned to face the rest of the group. Unlike Drakon, their ages were impossible to gauge.

  The men wore titanium helmets with bulletproof masks, assault armor, and vests with an assortment of pouches. Some of them even had gas masks on, giving the group the overall appearance of a special assault team.

  But there was no consistency to their equipment, all of them using whatever gear they preferred. Some of them were carrying automatic firearms. Their presence brought an eerie tension to the Russian forest.

  Lingerin surveyed the group and cracked his neck. “So what’s the obstacle?” he asked.

  “Thirty-seven armed illegals. It seems they were passing through the country to reach the west, and when we coincidentally became aware of their plan, they decided to come get rid of us.”

  “Coincidences can be scary. You sure it was a coincidence?”

  “If you call it a coincidence that you bugged a car you thought was owned by a business rival, overheard their secret plan, admitted it, then tried to make a profit by selling them weapons—then, yes.”

  “You’re right. It is a coincidence,” Lingerin grunted, but the effect of his gruffness was lessened due to the pots stuck to his hands.

  Drakon made no comment on his partner’s appearance or attitude as he continued mechanically, “It seems they intend to raid the village we are staying in to steal all our product. Based on the speed and determination of their actions, I believe they might have been planning all along to steal weapons somewhere along the way.”

  “I see… So what you’re saying is, they’re like Thieves Without Borders.”

  “Not in the least, Comrade, but you are stupid enough that it will have to do.”

  “Good. Finding compromise is the mark of a valuable adviser, Drakon. I have full trust in you,” said Lingerin Douglanikov, the president of a small arms-trading company—though it was hard to tell if the two were properly communicating their thoughts to each other or not. He cracked his neck and waited for the arrival of their enemy.

  “What a pain in the ass, I tell you. If they were here, I could lie back in bed and enjoy my sleep.”

  “Are you speaking of our ex-employees Semyon and Denis? Or Comrade Egor, currently on leave?”

  “No. Yes, they are all valuable men, but in this case, I am thinking more of certain specialists who will take care of such matters without even being asked,” Lingerin said, like a child boasting about his favorite superheroes. Coming from a grown man around forty, he merely seemed drunk. As a matter of fact, he had already emptied his morning bottle of vodka.

  “And they’re the ones that Egor went on leave to find,” the drunk muttered.

  For the first time, emotion played on Drakon’s features. “You mean Vorona and Slon.” That emotion was faint disgust. “Yes, they are experts in dirty work. But compared to you, Comrade Lingerin, Slon is even more…well, you know…”

  “More what? More…handsome?”

  “I retract my statement. It is a closer race than I thought,” Drakon said, his face placid once more. “As for Vorona, she possesses more beauty, grace, and knowledge than anyone else here…but at the same time, she is also more enthralled by a berserk need to fight.”

  He paused, removed his glasses, and grimaced. Lingerin smirked at his partner and taunted flippantly, as if there wasn’t about to be a major battle, “Why, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were boasting about your own daughter, Drakon! If that was the point, why don’t you call her by her real name rather than Crow?”

  Drakon kept his expression hidden. He said to his employer, “I cut our family ties ages ago.”

  “And remember…they took our products with them when they ran off to Japan.”

  May 3, Sunshine, Sixtieth Floor Street, Ikebukuro

  Right around the time that a shoplifter began to charge through the milling crowds… />
  “Что случилось?” (What happened?)

  The question belonged to a white man who stood out even more than the shoplifter in a way. There were plenty of black men around advertising for various businesses; foreigners were not a rare sight in Ikebukuro. But this man stood six feet tall, with limbs like massive logs and a professional wrestler’s physique. With a sandbag-like sack slung over his shoulder, he looked just like a fighter preparing for a journey for training.

  But the reason for the attention was the stunning contrast to the figure standing next to him.

  “Нет проблем.” (No problem.)

  The reply came from a Russian woman, approximately twenty years old, carrying a large paper bag. Her features were young enough that girl might have been more appropriate than woman. But her figure was most certainly mature, and fine musculature was visible on her smooth, slender arms.

  Her short hair was pale blond and dazzling, and little pupils stood out in the middle of her sky-blue eyes like deep pits.

  The look on her face was cold, and there were scar-like marks here and there on her skin. In combination with her plain black clothes, she cast a dark aura on her surroundings. But that darkness only served as a pleasing, fascinating accent on the woman’s finely chiseled features.

  It was a veritable case of Beauty and the Beast.

  Many in the crowd couldn’t help but watch the pair until the ruckus caused by the shoplifter drew their attention away.

  The girl showed no recognition of the reactions from the crowd as she turned to her partner and said flatly, “Denial, Slon… We speak Japanese in Japan. That was the decision. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. That is the basis of hiding one’s body. I accidentally performed a Russian response. I will be more careful from now on. Both of us.”

  “I’m sorry, Vorona. It was my mistake.”

  “You stand out. We will enter our destination quickly. Please confirm.”

  Her accent and pronunciation were perfect, but her syntax and choice of vocabulary were off-putting.

  The woman named Vorona and the man named Slon headed off to their destination. They had no interest whatsoever in the shoplifter and did not dedicate a second thought to the scene after that.

  As the crowd around them eventually trickled away, a muttered comment hung in the air.