Trigger warnings: mentions of suicide.
"WAR AGAINST DEATH IS WAR AGAINST WAR."
Fyodor continues to dance with you as if police in riot gear weren't surrounding the two of you, with Dazai and the rest of the Agency following suit behind him. The male hums a Russian tune as he dips you down once more, before swirling you around back into his embrace, arms loosely wrapped around you. His clasp was hungry enough to start gnawing at your heart; it kills you, on flesh, soft like milk and honey. You sigh subconsciously at the clicking of guns ricocheting around you like an applause.
"Hands up in the air!" One bellows at you. You wriggle out of Fyodor's grasp and he puts his hands in the air. "Move and we'll shoot!"
You look around and find Dazai's face peering at you through the shoulders of the riot police. He nods, and you slowly raise your arms over your head.
"Step away from the man," The riot police commands as you inch away from Fyodor. You then disappear behind the police, where then the Agency members surround you protectively. A police officer reaches out for Fyodor to turn him around, and your eyes widen. You shout out,
"Don't touch him—!"
CRACK! The xylophone of the police officer spine wrings itself like a towel as blood pours out of the fleshly gaps, intestines squirming and squelching out of the tears of his flesh. The body crashes against the floor with a hefty THUD, blood splattering across the floor like a dropped wine bottle. You wince at the sight of his eyes bulging out of their sockets, mouth agape and pouring with crimson steadily, enlarging the circle of red around his twisted neck. The crushing and splintering of bones continues like a frenzied melody before it finally falls quiet. You all stare down at the body in shock as it continues to twitch and wriggle.
"Move out of line and we'll shoot you," The captain of the squadron regains his composure just as quickly as he had lost it, pointing the barrel of the gun at him. Fyodor hums as he walks with the police out to the entrance.
"Pardon me," He says. He turns around, and you look at his violet, refracting eyes. "(first name), the history book on the shelf is always repeating itself. Will you try to walk out of your own myth? Have you been dead from the beginning, I wonder."
Then he turns around and disappears into the police van. You bite the inside of your cheek as Dazai puts a hand on your shoulder.
"We came as quickly as possible after you exposed their address," Dazai says. "Gogol greeted us by the entrance and disappeared into his coat."
"I'm surprised he didn't try to make an escape plan," A woman comments from the side, her arms crossed under her chest as she tilts her head. You sigh.
"It's because he wanted to be caught."
"Why?" She asks you, honing her hawk-like eyes onto you. She wore a gold butterfly hair pin on her dark head, and you noticed that her voice was sterile and clean, as though winter snow was already blooming inside her. Your clothes are slightly dotted with splattered blood from the incident, and you uselessly trace constellations with the dots with your fingers.
"So I would know where exactly he is. And he knows how to communicate with the outside world regardless of where he is. Everything is a game to him. I was just one of his chess pieces that he was particularly fond of. Isn't that depressing?"
—
"Why do you want to remain missing?"
That is the first thing President Fukuzawa asks as you sit in his office, hands crossed over each other as you stare into his stern eyes. There are deep tear troughs on his face from ageing, but he still had a youthful touch to him that was only procured from purity of the soul.
"I can't face my foster parents just yet," You say. "I haven't found my answers."
"Your parents must be worried about you."
"Maybe."
"Do you not miss them?"
"No."
He silently stares at you at your short, curt responses.
"Alright," He finally takes his hands out of his yukata sleeves and picks up his pen, signing something. "We'll keep you undercover until you want to come out to the world."
"Thank you."
"I must remind you, it will be no easy task. A university dropout turned domestic terrorist will be hard work to reverse."
"I'm not planning on reversing or turning the tide of the public to my favour," You say, standing up from the chair. "I'm a domestic terrorist. It was just a matter of who was controlling the domestic terrorist in me."
"Are you insinuating you will blame Fyodor when it comes down to it?"
"Who else is there to blame but him?" You answer. "I don't want revenge, nor do I want expiation. I only want answers to how I was lost. And if it means blaming someone else for domestic terrorism, then so be it."
He falls quiet at your words. "Your dedication to finding out about your mother's suicide is extraordinary."
"I love her," You say. Then you tap your temple. "Sometimes I can hear her here."
"What does she say?"
"That she's proud of me. Nothing bad in particular," You say carelessly. "Maybe I am schizophrenic. Who knows."
You exit his office with those words, closing the door and leaning against it. You sigh, your shoulders dropping. Despite your answers being curt and cold, you had been bearing a tight coil of pressure in your heart being in his presence; he was intimidating to be around, with his voice close to God and his ability to disarm you with ease frightening. You take a deep breath and let the exhale comfort you, deflating your lungs like a slowly agape balloon.
"What did the President say?" Dazai asks, twirling around his chair before coming to a stop. He receives a glare from his blond colleague but you notice that the blond has stopped typing too, as though interested in your answers just as the brunette. You clear your throat.
"That I'm not prepared to face my foster parents yet, and that I've claimed my title as a domestic terrorist."
"What a title to claim!" Dazai exclaims, his voice lilted into a laugh at the serious look on your face. He watches your face relax at his laughter, losing its strain like a flower bud unfolding its petals, swirling and sprouting into a flourishing spider lily. Scarcely were your words spoken before a layer of unreality and ineffectuality, settling a sense of illusion over the entire scene.
"Why are you unprepared to meet your parents yet? They must be worried sick about you," The blond says, resuming his typing. You shrug.
"I need to focus on myself, by myself," Your voice is determined. "I need to find out what happened on that day that drove mom to suicide."
"How do you intend on doing that, belladonna?" Dazai asks, leaning his chin on the heel of his palm. You cringe at his nickname, before clenching your fists by your side.
"By going back home."
"Home as in...?" Dazai trails off.
"My old home. I know for a fact it hasn't been demolished or rented out yet; people don't like homes that had something bad happen to it," You say, checking the time on your phone. "I'm going to get going. Bye, Dazai."
"Wait," He stands up from his chair. "Let me follow you."
"Didn't I just say I needed to do this on my own?"
"What's an extra pair of hands going to do other than help?" He winks, grabbing his tan coat from the coat hanger. "Don't worry, (first name). I won't get in the way. I'll be by the margins, looking in for anything you might have missed."