Durarara!!, Vol. 4 (novel)

by Ryohgo Narita

  “Oh? We didn’t tell you?”

  “?”

  “Yumacchi and I are freelancers, so we can make our own schedules.”

  “Freelancers…?” Mikado asked curiously.

  Karisawa took a sip of oolong tea and continued, “That’s right. Dotachin’s more of an artisan type. And Togusacchi lives off the rent from the apartment building that he and his brother inherited from their parents. His brother manages the place, while Togusacchi collects the rent money. The reason we can hang out with them so much is because we set our own hours. Of course, until a year ago, everyone except for Dotachin was unemployed.”

  Now that she mentioned it, Mikado could tell that they weren’t salaried office types, given that they were meeting him in the middle of a weekday like this. And when he saw them around town, they were always hanging around in their own clothes, no uniforms. They were often with Kadota’s group, but he had to admit that he just assumed the whole bunch had no jobs.

  “I make money by selling engraved accessories on the Net, and would you believe what Yumacchi does? What is it, ice sculpting? People pay him to make those ice sculptures you see at parties and stuff.”

  “Whoa!”

  “Actually, I’m not even that great. I don’t have exclusive arrangements with a hotel or anything reliable like that, so I never know when my income will dry up. But the character sculptures I’ve done for publishers’ parties lately have been a big hit, so if I can survive on that, it’s my dream job. Wanna be the next Kaiyodo.” Yumasaki smiled shyly, referencing a famous figurine maker.

  Mikado murmured in surprise, impressed that the two had actual jobs. Based on how wide Anri’s eyes were, he wasn’t the only one who assumed they were unemployed. Given the piles of books they seemed to be buying every single day, that income was pretty sizable. Of course, knowing them, they were probably cutting into their food budgets to squeeze in more books.

  He bowed to the pair. “In that case, I’d be delighted to have your help! Hope to see you tomorrow!”

  But when Yumasaki followed that up with, “In that case, we’ll start off with a pilgrimage of all the holy sites of Ikebukuro that appear in anime and manga,” Mikado’s gratitude quickly plummeted into regret.

  Two hours later, Ikebukuro West Gate Park

  “We’ll pay the bill. Just let us sing,” Karisawa had said. Mikado and Anri reluctantly agreed and were treated to a two-hour medley of anime theme songs for their trouble.

  They hardly recognized any of them, but Karisawa and Yumasaki were surprisingly talented singers and as comfortable as if they’d practiced singing hundreds of times. In fact, it was probably true that they had practiced the same song hundreds of times before.

  They especially seemed to like a recent anime theme sung by a pop idol named Ruri Hijiribe—both Yumasaki and Karisawa chose it on different occasions.

  After the karaoke was done and they left the singers behind, Mikado and Anri were walking through West Gate Park, chatting.

  “Thanks for coming with me today.”

  “Oh, it’s fine. I needed to thank them, anyway…”

  “You did? For what?”

  “For some stuff a while ago…,” Anri said vaguely. Mikado didn’t want to intrude, so he searched for a new topic. He was going to ask her if anything interesting had happened to her over spring vacation when something odd caught his eye.

  It was a white gas mask.

  In a corner of West Gate Park was a man wearing the strange combination of a white gas mask and lab coat, speaking with a tall Caucasian fellow.

  Mikado didn’t want to stare, so he kept tabs on the man out of the side of his eye as he noted, “I wonder what that guy in the white gas mask is all about… The foreigner next to him isn’t wearing one, so it can’t be a gas leak…”

  But Anri didn’t respond.

  He looked over in case she hadn’t heard him and instantly noticed that something was wrong with her. Anri was looking in the same direction that he had just been doing, but her eyes were wide with shock.

  “Um, Sonohara…?”

  “Oh…sorry. I was just thinking, that white gas mask is very strange…”

  “Huh? Uh, yeah. Yeah, it sure is,” Mikado remarked, glad that Anri was back to her usual smile, before he headed for home.

  Meanwhile, Anri started on the route to her apartment—but once she checked to make sure that Mikado was completely out of sight, she returned the way they had come.

  “Well, if you want to know more…shall we find a more private place to talk?”

  “The details are in the data you gave me, aren’t they? No use for idle chat.”

  “I think you’d be better off hearing me out. Don’t want you to examine the data and assume it’s just a joke.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The two men were keeping their expressions hidden, albeit in different ways.

  The large white man was utterly stone-faced.

  And the Japanese man was hiding his entire face behind a gas mask.

  Anri carefully approached the tense, uncomfortable scene. Instantly, the white man sensed her and turned around, looking down with a gentle smile.

  “Did you want something, sweet little girl?” he said in perfect Japanese, despite his obviously foreign origin. Anri tensed instinctually, sensing something dangerous from him. But running away now would defeat the purpose, so she bowed to him and then turned to the man in the gas mask.

  “Um…thank you…for the other day,” she said, then belatedly regretted it, as she didn’t even know his name. Still, she could clearly remember the day last month when she was talking with Celty, and the same man had butted in to ask, “Are you the daughter of the Sonohara-dou?”

  Given his outfit, it would be hard to mistake him for anyone else. She bowed again, and he seemed to recognize her at last. The man in the gas mask glanced at the white man and said, “As long as it’s brief,” then turned back to her.

  “You’re the girl from the Sonohara-dou. I’m afraid I left quite a miserable impression on you back then.”

  “Um…do you know my parents?”

  “Well, I should say that yes, I do. And on an extension of that, I also know about the sword you possess.”

  “…!”

  Instantly, a voice ran through Anri’s right arm.

  A voice that only she could hear, going straight to her brain.

  Ooh. If it isn’t my former owner.

  That voice, which belonged to a plane distinct from physics or psychology, was not the “cursed words” that constantly ran in the background of her mind like empty Muzak, but a proper voice with its own logic and reason.

  But he only had me cut down the soul of some strange monster overseas. He didn’t let me love any humans.

  Just as Mikado Ryuugamine held a small secret—that he was the founder of the Dollars—

  Just as Masaomi Kida struggled with a big problem—as leader of the Yellow Scarves—

  Anri Sonohara had her own secret past hidden within her.

  Saika.

  A being without form in most cases.

  It lurked within Anri Sonohara’s right arm, singing accursed words into her mind.

  If she bothered to tell a doctor about this, any professional would likely agree that the reason had to be within Anri herself—but as a matter of fact, the source of the voice was completely outside of her brain and did not stem from her own mind.

  It was a being removed from rationality, neither physical nor mental in nature.

  Saika was what many considered to be a “cursed blade.” It lurked within Anri’s body and could physically manifest as a katana at her beck and call.

  Anri, in fact, was the central figure behind a series of random slashings several months ago that the papers decided to label the “Night of the Ripper.” But she was not, in fact, responsible for the attacks themselves—they were caused by offshoots that Saika had created.

  Saika wanted “children” that served as p
roof of its love with human beings. These children were created through a true curse, implanted into the victims of the blade with a part of Saika’s mind.

  There was another girl that had been slashed before Anri became Saika’s host. The “child” of Saika implanted into that girl desired a twisted love from humanity in the same way its parent did—and the result of that rampage was the Night of the Ripper.

  The incident was ultimately resolved when Anri brought all of those “children” under her control. With the slashings stopped, she returned the normal minds of all of those victims of Saika to their hosts, only ensuring that their memories of the slashings reflected a more convenient story: No one who was slashed could remember the face of the attacker.

  However, this incident sparked a conflict between the Yellow Scarves and the Dollars, plunging Anri’s closest friends into a war without her realizing it.

  After all of this, Anri had accepted Saika but was not particularly happy about it.

  Part of it was that it had caused the death of her parents, but mostly it was the unease of knowing that there were people out there aware of her state.

  Saika’s voice had returned to its normal chorus of “I love you.” The reasoned, logical words she’d heard a second ago had been an occasional presence ever since the Night of the Ripper. And Anri suspected that Saika was speaking the truth.

  She took a quiet breath and cautiously stared down the man in the gas mask.

  “What do you know…and how much do you know…?”

  “Ahh, well, if I were to answer that question, I would have to say that I know about you, up to an extent. But very well. As the saying goes, ‘Even the starving hawk is too noble to ransack the crops,’ and powerful beings like you would not prey upon weak little me, even if you were in trouble.”

  “…? Um, I’m afraid I don’t…”

  “At any rate, we can talk more upon that matter on another occasion. I am currently having a business conversation. Allow me to give you my card; you may contact me here.”

  The man in the gas mask pulled a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Anri.

  “Nebula Pharmaceutical, Special Advisor: Shingen Kishitani,” the card read, along with a number of methods of contact.

  Anri looked at the card—her mind working fast—when she felt the pat of a hand on her shoulder from behind.

  Instantly, a nasty sense of pressure engulfed her entire body.

  A cold sharpness ran through her shoulder, and for a moment, time froze within her.

  It felt like her freedom of movement had been stolen, like her body was being manhandled all over.

  Gushk, gushk. Her nerves were gouged out.

  Zig-zig-zig-zig. Her mind eerily creaked and cracked.

  Zigshk, zigshk, zig-zig zig-zig zig zig-zig-zig zig-zig-zig-zig zig-zig-zig-zig zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig zig-zig zig-zig-zig zig-zig-zig zig-zig-zig zig-zig-zig zig-zig zig-zig zig zig-zig zig-zig-zig-zig zig zig zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig-zig—

  The march of the ugly creaking reached its peak, and every cell in her body screamed, warning her of the danger of the man behind her.

  Warning her that he was far, far more dangerous than she could imagine.

  Anri slowly turned around, feeling cold sweat bloom from every pore of her body.

  It was the smile of the white man, who had been watching the conversation from close by.

  “Please forgive me, sweet little girl.”

  It was a smile meant to reassure and set at ease, but Anri’s nerves stayed utterly taut. She stared him dead in the face.

  “We are having a very important business conversation. Let me make it up to you by treating you to dinner sometime,” he joked, pretending to hit on her. The man shook his head and moved in between Anri and Shingen.

  “Oh…I see. I’m very sorry to interrupt,” Anri said, burning the white man’s face into her mind. She left the scene.

  She mustn’t forget that face. Her reason and instincts both told her so.

  At the fork in the road leading to the underground tunnel, Anri turned back one last time.

  The white man was still watching her.

  She felt that twitching at her back and committed his face to memory one last time, just to be sure.

  But ultimately, it was the last time she ever saw that face.

  Because several hours later, Shizuo would hit him in the face with a bench, which meant that if he ever faced off with Anri again, he would look like a totally different person.

  Night, apartment, Ikebukuro

  “The serial killer Hollywood…and they still haven’t caught him? That’s scary,” said a boy to the TV inside his cheap apartment close to the train station.

  Without anything better to do, Mikado decided that he would flip through the news on TV all day. The recent topic of interest to the media was the mysterious serial killer.

  While the news itself did not report on the nickname, anyone who browsed the Internet or tabloid magazines was fully aware of the “Hollywood” moniker.

  The first time he saw it covered on the news, it seemed like the events of some distant country, even though the incidents were taking place right there in the city. But through the Internet-enabled Hollywood nickname, the idle chats with friends, and the sites that popped up attempting to track down Hollywood’s identity, he couldn’t help but feel not just the fear of that eerie killer, but the tasteless, guilty allure of curiosity. Just who was Hollywood?

  Society seemed more interested in the identity of the Black Rider than this mystery killer, but given that Mikado actually knew who the Headless Rider was, the still-unmasked Hollywood held much more fascination for him.

  On the other hand, it seemed like following up a meeting with Anri by watching depressing news pieces only left a bad aftertaste. So he picked up the remote and muttered, “Maybe I can find a happier news segment.”

  As he surfed through the channels, he came across a report that Yuuhei Hanejima’s photo book had sold twenty thousand copies in its first week. On the screen was a portrait of a young man with far better looks than Mikado’s.

  “That’s incredible. Twenty thousand copies at three thousand yen apiece… Even if he only makes ten percent in royalties, that’s six million yen. And his movies are doing gangbusters. He’s really got it all going on…”

  He was inferior in every single way to the perfect superhuman on the screen. Mikado sighed dejectedly.

  You know…I feel like this Yuuhei guy reminds me of someone I know…

  The thought had occurred to him every time he saw the star actor, but no answer was forthcoming. Mikado continued flipping through every channel that was currently playing the news. Around the point that they all started covering the weather forecast, he decided it was time to check the TV guide in the paper.

  With the schedule transition that April usually brought, most stations would be airing their own special programs starting in the next time block.

  One of them was titled Ikebukuro’s 100-Day Front, Undercover! Shining a Light on the Hellhole That Is Ikebukuro, Live!

  Hellhole…? That seems unnecessarily harsh.

  But he would be lying if he said he wasn’t interested. In the end, Mikado decided to watch the show on the chance that he might see an acquaintance of his on live television.

  Ultimately, his guess was correct.

  But it was not the kind of acquaintance that he was expecting.

  One hour later, he was watching a pitch-black shadow on the screen as it raced away from a motor officer.

  “Celty…,” he mumbled. He would never mistake that shadow for anyone else. He left the TV on and turned to the window.

  The place they were showing on the program was not anywhere close, so naturally he couldn’t see the events from his apartment. He tried to focus his ears to hear something, but that didn’t turn up anything, either.


  Meanwhile, Celty grew giant black wings on the screen and flew through the sky, like some kind of phantom thief.

  “I don’t know… That looks bad. Should I mobilize the Dollars…? I guess there’s no way to do that,” Mikado murmured, the very personification of the word naive. Back on the TV, they had returned to the news studio. He was worried for the sake of the inhuman dullahan that would normally have no connection to him whatsoever, but she was a member of the Dollars, after all.

  “Well, I guess Celty can handle things for herself. Right?” he said and headed for the familiar chat room.

  All the while, he was secretly harboring both excitement and anxiety over the Ikebukuro guided tour he would be leading the following evening.

  Chat room

  TarouTanaka has entered the chat.

  TarouTanaka: Oh, no one’s here.

  TarouTanaka: I suppose I’ll check back in a few hours.

  TarouTanaka has left the chat.

  The chat room is currently empty.

  Bacura has entered the chat.

  Bacura: Hmm?

  Bacura: So nobody’s here?

  Bacura: Okay,

  Bacura: Now I can write anything I damn well please on this unclaimed ground.

  Bacura: Listen up, Johnny.

  Bacura: When I was in elementary school,

  Bacura: A girl in my class played my recorder.

  Bacura: When I caught her in the act,

  Bacura: In exchange for keeping her secret, I said,

  Bacura: “What you really want to put your mouth on is my face.”

  Bacura: So rather than my recorder, she locked lips with my whistle instead.

  Bacura: And when another boy saw it happen, he stuck his fingers in his mouth and tweeted away.

  Bacura: HA-HA-HA

  Bacura: It’s both a true anecdote and an American-style joke!

  Bacura: Cool,

  Bacura: Now I just spam the chat to wash that backlog away.

  Bacura: Sound off!

  Saika has entered the chat.