Trigger warnings: None
"AN ODOUR OF RUIN FLOATS WITHIN ME."
Mom named me (first name) by herself because dad wasn't there when I was born.
Is what you write in that spiral notebook by your nightstand. You're currently tucked under the thick duvets of the bed, head sinking into the white pillow that smells of water lilies. You're staring at the thin muslin above your head.
This is a very sad story. A sad, but loving story. This is a very lonely story.
(first name) was something mom always wanted to call me, she said. She said she got the name from a name-teller after paying a fortune. Mom said that the name balanced the elements I lacked in my last name. Mom was thoughtful; mom wanted me to succeed before I was even born. When I was the size of a pea, she would say, showing how small I was using her pinkie tip, she wanted me to be the greatest I could ever be. She knew that I would do good the moment she saw I was born; I cried with such ferocity that even the doctors laughed.
You turn over to your side. Oh, you're so tired from crying for so long. Your eyes are sore from your fingers rubbing over them, tear ducts throbbing with every breath. Your sleep eludes you like waves receding from the sand, receding farther and farther before it roared into a tsunami.
What mom didn't know that she made a monster. I stand in the blood of my ruins and it fills me with joy; the violence fills me with such ecstasy that I can't bear to face it. How vile, how filthy I have become. Mom, I'm a monster. Mom, I'm a monster because basically, there is nothing new in the behaviour of monsters; the monster herself is nothing more than an invention of her victims. I was made by this ability.
Mom, someone is going to help me redeem myself. His name is Fyodor Dostoyevsky. I joined him and Sigma and Gogol. They're going to save me and I'm going to find out why you ended your life when I was eleven.
I love you mom. Please look after me even in the afterlife.
Your sleep enfolds you like a moth entering the warm, velvety embrace of a bat and its wings. You sleep soundly, with dreams stirring you from the unconscious from time to time. You dream of being in your old home, the one that mom took such good care of, with mom in her black couch that she regularly wiped with a rag and a pile of magazines on the coffee table. It doesn't occur to you to approach her; you enter your room instead and you fall into a pit, your childhood blankets clutched between your hands. You're falling and falling and falling and then you're met with a row of elevator buttons. You let yourself press the correct button lucidly and then you wake up, pen still in hand.
Morning comes. Since this is an underground hideout, the sun doesn't reach your bed in streaks and streams, but through the clock hanging on the wall. It reads: 7:35 AM. You flip through the notebook before clapping it shut, placing the pen next to it.
"What a morning," You can hear Sigma sigh from outside your room. "At this rate, I'm going to be late to Sky Casino—!"
"You really like the casino, huh," You pop out from your room, a tired but gentle smile on your face. Sigma jolts at your sudden intrusion, before his shoulders relax. A smile curves his lips at the mention of his casino.
"It gives me purpose."
"You're a lucky man; I've met people that have no purpose."
That makes him curiously tilt his head. "Like who?"
"Me," You offhandedly say, inspecting your nails before your eyes flicker up to his. "I have no purpose. At least, after mom died."
"Fyodor tells me you were adopted."
"Did he?"
"Yes."
"I was. But they're not mom. They'll never be mom," You say, with a hint of bitterness that melts into remorse. "They'll never be mom."
"You must have loved your mother," Sigma says. He walks with you down the corridors. You nod.
"How about you?"
That question makes his gaze darken, as though something had been dimmed inside out. His voice becomes hollow and thin, as though held together by a string, each word a bead that collides against each other with a diminutive tinkle.
"I was born, or I was created," He says, carefully. He opens his mouth then shuts it, before a defeated look overcomes his face. He seemed to be fighting a struggle to tell you this tale, and the need to tell comes out victorious. "I wasn't there, and then suddenly, I was."
"You weren't born?"
"I wasn't. I suddenly appeared, with clothes on my back and a train ticket to a station that no longer exists."
"Must be disconcerting," You comment, your hands in your pockets. "To have no memory or origin."
"That's why I'm looking for a reason to live. I'm trying to find a reason and understanding of what I was born for. But for now, the casino gives me purpose. Apart from the casino, I have nothing."
"At least you have something," You look at him and smile. "Better than nothing, right?"
He nods, a small smile on his lips. "Right."
"This early in the morning and you two are already so lovey dovey? Dostoy won't be pleased, little dove~" Gogol pulls a face, and the two of you jump back when he pounces in front of you. You and Sigma stare at each other before turning back to Gogol. His white hair bristles in the light breeze, braid swaying like a tail behind him.
"Dostoy—You mean Fyodor?" You ask, a tinge of dangerous curiosity to your voice. "Why does it matter to him?"
"I think Dostoy here has taken a liking to you," Gogol says, grinning at you. "Frankly, your sparkle mesmerises me too—such a dedicated disciple of your mother! The Decay of Angels's plan for you is the true embodiment of evil, and yet you persist with what good you have left in your heart!" He spins around, taking off his eyepatch. What light he has in his exposed eye is blank in the other. An out of character gentle smile graces his lips. "Quiz time! Why have I joined the Decay of Angels?"
You turn to Sigma, unsurely, before turning back to the white-haired jester. "Because...you want to be evil?"
"Wrong!" He puts his eyepatch back on. "Wrong answer! The correct answer is, because I want to break out of the prison that is called morality! The inherent brainwashing that we call morality! I seek freedom for my own soul more than any kind of joy!" He tilts his head back and opens his arms dramatically. "Ah, I live for the day I will be able to achieve such freedom!"
Just as you open your mouth to speak, Fyodor emerges from around the corner. A sardonic smile twitches on his lips at the sight of the three of you gathered together. "How convenient. I was just about to call a meeting."
"Dostoy!"
"Fyodor," You greet with a small wave. "What did you need us for?"
"Perhaps it is easier to just say it here while we are gathered," He says, putting his ushanka hat on his head. "Our next plan of action is to break the Armed Detective Agency."
"Wasn't your original plan something related to the Port Mafia?" You ask, locking your hands together in front of you.
"It was. But I've changed my mind. The Armed Detective Agency has surely gotten news that I've acquired you. They are, no doubtedly, squeaking and squealing in panic," Fyodor says. His words are cruel, sharp and jagged, and most importantly, cold—the way he structured his words were violent, as though they were words written out in the aftermaths of a bloodletting: full of lightheadedness and ecstasy. "They will be on our tails to get you back."
Flashes of Dazai emerge before your eyes in the aftermath of a bright light: in neon colours, in imaginary colours, in non-existant colours. The brunette had an impression on you, both good and bad. He had attempted to coerce you into the Agency—and you knew that it wasn't for your own sake, but to prevent you from having free will and finding out your own destiny. You didn't want your destiny to be made by the hands of Dazai—no, you would follow Fyodor because his path was freeing. Even if it meant evil, even if it meant sacrifice.
"The cries of the Armed Detective Agency sound like the cries of a baby bird emerging from the cracked eggshell," Gogol says, taking his hat off and tipping it towards you. "My, I wonder how this will fare for you, my dear dove."