Chapter Text
Arataka quit his job.
Not really the smartest idea for someone to have in the midst of a slowly but surely occurring economic meltdown, but he figures it’s a problem for future Arataka to put up with. There was just something about that stifling cubicle that just drove him insane. It’s just not his calling, even if his mom would be pissed about his throwing away such a stable source of income.
It’s whatever, he’s always figured something out. Maybe he’ll open a psychic business, teaching needy people to deal with the unknown, and all that crap. Like that psychic guy that used to be on TV.
He drives to his apartment in a rickety old car, an old hand-me-down from his mother, rusting and actually kinda-really-definitely slow. It smells faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne, which really is the way to live, isn’t it?
Arataka used to smoke in the car, but for some peculiar reason, cigarettes and cars don’t really mix.
Arataka taps his fingers on the steering wheel, whistling to some hyperactive pop song blaring on the radio. It sounds like some remix trap music, cause’ beneath the sound of the song, he hears the sound of screaming and crashing. Damn, he knows he was a teenager like— what— two or three years ago, but this music stuff is really getting advanced now. It kind of sounds like shit, but Arataka isn’t one to judge. He gets it. He used to listen to all kinds of shit that old people hated.
The music stops abruptly, the channel left on static as he flips through different ones with a sigh. Must’ve driven out of range. It’s weird, because he’s only on the edge of the city, so the radio stations should still be connecting all the way to the suburbs. But again, Arataka is not one to judge. The radio station workers aren’t the guy who quit his stable office job on a whim.
He squints at the rearview mirror like it’s done him some kind of personal injustice. Nobody is behind him as he pulls onto the rougher backroads on the outskirts of Seasoning City. It does make sense for 9:48 AM on a Wednesday, though. He can’t imagine anyone would have much reason to be leaving the city mid-morning on a weekday, but Arataka hates himself, so he lives in the next city over and has to do his road trip of shame back to his shoddy apartment.
Still a good few kilometers from his apartment, Arataka’s car jolts as a particularly nasty pothole nearly sends his car into a sideways wheelie, and he grips the steering wheel with wide eyes and sweaty palms. A loud crack as it careens over the obstacle leaves him praying that something in his car didn’t break. God, they really need to do some road work around here! Road work ahead? Apparently fucking not.
Actually, shouldn’t a car tip down when it hits a pothole? Wait. Wait just one second. Arataka whirls the car around and slams the brakes, nearly falling on his ass with how frantically he tumbles out of his vehicle.
There is a toddler laying face down in the road. Reigen Arataka is going to prison.
He inhales deeply, crouching to put his head in his hands. Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!
Focus, Arataka! He didn’t win his middle school’s debate competition for nothing, after all. If he tries hard enough, maybe he can smooth talk himself out of a life sentence.
Maybe the kid is still salvageable! They don’t look like they’re in too rough shape? Okay, well, he’s not sure how well a toddler can survive getting straight up driven over without breaking every bone in their body, but sometimes confidence is key.
With a sick feeling pooling in his stomach, Arataka leans in to get a closer look at the kid, who is, by the way, covered in tire tracks. Multiple actually, has this kid just been laying here? Oh, that’s so much worse.
Upon closer inspection, they actually look.. fine? No bones are bent in an odd manner, and there’s not any blood pooled beneath them. What the hell? Is this a mannequin? He pokes the kid’s face, and they shoot up with wide eyes. Arataka somersaults about 30 feet back, shrieking. Not a mannequin. Holy shit, that is NOT a mannequin!
He can only see half of the kid’s face once he sits up, due to bandages draped from his forehead on the right side of his face. His hair is black, choppy and in one of the most textbook bowl cut looks he’s ever seen. What Arataka can see of his face is scraped up, and the child stares at him like he’s an alien. Like, what the hell? He’s not the one who survived getting run over multiple times! Actually, could he? Scratch that, Arataka doesn’t feel like finding out.
“Oh— hey, uh. Are you good?” He blinks, and the kid just continues to look at him with owlishly wide eyes. He hopes this isn’t the start of a horror movie. Being the prologue victim is always lame, and Reigen feels he’s much too sexy to die.
He hesitantly waves a hand in front of the kid’s face, eyebrows furrowed. “I know I just— like— ran you over or something, but I just want to make sure you’re not too hurt. You’re not too hurt, right?”
They blink, looking him up and down. The child is in what looks like pajamas, coated in dust and stained with what he’s really hoping is barbecue sauce. “Oh,” they whisper, “Okay.”
Arataka bites the inside of his cheek, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Can you.. Uh, tell me what you were doing laying in the road?” To be specific, what are they doing laying in the road 8 kilometers from the nearest suburban segment of town? This is kind of the middle of nowhere, isn’t it?
They stare at Arataka again, eyes clouded with confusion and hopefully not a concussion. “I.. don’t remember..”
Ah, memory loss is always a fun thing to have, right? He knows amnesia was always his favorite childhood game. Arataka briefly puts his face in his hands, inhaling deeply. The corner of his flip-phone digs into his cheek a little.
“Can you tell me your name?” Arataka tests the waters, doing the mental equivalent of poking the kid with a stick. Simultaneously, he scans the lock screen of his phone, eyes drifting to a recent notification on the front. No, eyes on the prize, baby. He just needs to remember the wise words of his grandma chastising those damn phones at the last reunion.
The kid stares blankly for a few minutes now, as if there’s a little hamster running through their brain to come up with thoughts. Ever so slightly, the kid’s face scrunches up. “Mob?”
Wow. That’s a kinda dumb name, isn’t it? Mob? Well, Arataka isn’t a parent, thank god, so it’s not any of his business. Regardless, as the (mostly) adult, it’s his job to substitute until the wack-job that named their kid Mob gets back. If they get back.
Either way, Arataka’s hands swivel in a series of motions, “Well, Mob, I’m Reigen Arataka,“ and he points to himself with a grin far easier than what he feels sitting next to a child on the side of the road, “The Greatest Psychic of the 21st Century!”
Anyone who asks Reigen Arataka about this sentence after the fact will be met with a sneer defiance of it being anything but the truth. By both himself and Mob. Of course, even on his deathbed, if you asked Arataka, he would say “Lord above, I’ve never lied a day in my life and regretted it.” And he’d be thinking more precariously about the time he lied about his birthday in an Applebee’s than any given conversation with Mob. All that matters is that in Mob’s heart, it’s the truth, and isn’t that the only truth that counts?
But yeah no, he was totally bullshitting.
The little kid’s eyes light up, his grubby little hands fidgeting with each other, “Psychic?” He looks up at Arataka with stars in his eyes, and the blond’s pathetic little smoker heart seized in what he feels could only be a heart palpitation. Despite himself, Arataka’s grin doesn’t waver and he pats the kid’s back.
“That’s right! The spirits were conferring with me, and told me that you could use some help,” he confirms, leaning closer into Mob as if he’s sharing an important secret. And not as if he had screeched to a stop because he ran the kid over. But Arataka might have to take that part to his grave.
Actually, taking a closer look, the tire tracks on this kid (he’s still in denial about how he survived those) aren’t… recent? Or from his car? Wait, did he even run the kid over? Arataka pauses, glancing about the scene. He did kind of get tunnel vision when he saw a toddler in the road. Sure enough, there’s an absolutely crumpled, borderline decimated red wagon lying a few feet from the child. Arataka’s previously tense shoulders quite literally deflate with relief. He’s not a murderer. Yet.
With newly instilled confidence, Arataka pats his knees and stands up, helping to hoist up Mob as he does so. The child doesn’t protest, but his eyes go a bit wide when they see the wreckage of the wagon. “Well, kiddo. Why don’t we head into town and look for your parents?”
The kid’s lip wobbles. He trudges over to the wagon, Arataka trailing hesitantly behind him. The man winces a little, tilting his head at the mess of stuff. It’s the kind of thing he’d expect a kid to pack for a trip if they.. didn’t have a parent to tell them what to do. An incredibly dirty stuffed dog, coated with the same potential barbecue sauce (don’t consider the alternative, Arataka), a ratty blanket, an old, green jacket that reminds Arataka vaguely of Kermit the Frog, and a matching umbrella.
“We can— uh, get that into my car, if you want?” And look at him, the sketchy young adult trying to convince a grade-schooler to get into his car. Fortunately (holy shit that’s terrible to say, Arataka!), Mob seemed to have been spacing out during his last lesson on Stranger Danger, so he nods. Arataka pats his back again, feeling too awkward to pat his head but too guilty to do nothing.
So, after a solid five minutes of shoving the kid’s stuff into the trunk of his car (excluding the blanket, which Mob had conveyed that he needed through a series of mildly devastated looks), Arataka helps hoist the kid himself into the passenger’s seat. He doesn’t have a car seat and doesn’t really wanna leave Mob in the back, so this is going to need to suffice. As long as he doesn’t crash, it should be fine.
The car is still humming lowly, but that just means the AC is on as Arataka himself climbs into the driver’s seat. He shakes off his nerves and whips his mobile out of his pocket. Now, he can grab his phone. Call the police and see if there’s anything about a missing or runaway child.
His lock screen is completely taken over by a blaring red and yellow security alert. It’s a little harsh on the eyes, to be honest.
NATIONAL SECURITY WARNING: DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH AND DISEASE AWARENESS
Well, that’s not ominous or anything. With an uneasy feeling settling in his gut, Arataka opens his flip-phone, but considering the device is ancient, it ends up taking a solid fifteen seconds before it starts up the page.
Araraka skims over the notice, the uneasy feeling solidifying like a rock.
It’s blank.
Nothing saying “this is a drill, go back to your lives”, or “everyone is dead”. It’s just… blank.
Arataka continues to ignore his gut, and opens up his call screen, which takes another solid fifteen seconds. He types in the ten-digit number of the region’s police office with a bit of difficulty (and it’s only a bit because he has the number written haphazardly on a piece of masking tape on the back of the phone), stepping carefully on the gas as he slots the phone in the crook of his neck.
Ring…
Ring…
Ring…
Damn, are the police really that busy? Maybe his service is just shit? No, because the call went through…
The automated voicemail message drones at him, and Arataka snaps the phone shut with a sigh. No matter.
“Looks like this might be a minute,” Arataka sighs, turning to Mob, “Are you hungry?”
Mob, still clearly behind on stranger danger, nods. Arataka hums a little, opening the compartment between the passenger and driver’s seat. Besides a pack of cigarettes, an entire box’s worth of snacks lies ripe for the picking. “There’s more in the glovebox. Just don’t eat the cigarettes, okay?”
Now, usually Arataka’s car would not be this road trip ready. At best, he has a pack of snack mix for a particularly long drive, but it seems like the prophets spoke to him during his last trip to the bar (followed promptly by a trip to the supermarket).
Reigen isn’t confirming anything as Mob eyes a pack of Minion shaped fruit gummies, but he’s also not denying that maybe he made a few questionable financial decisions while under the influence. He won’t say he got sloshed and spent half of his savings on stupid gimmick foods, but he also won’t say that he didn’t do that.
“Ah, the spirits told me you might like those,” Arataka notes, taking further notice of how Mob bristles with anticipation at the phrase, “They’re wise like that. You shouldn’t really accept food from strangers, though. This is… a unique kind of situation, kay?”
He points a firm finger at Mob, whose bandages stretch a little as the kid attempts to fit two entire packs of gummies in his mouth. He nods. What are they for, anyways? It doesn’t look like they’re bothering the kid, but he ought to check what’s up with that once they get into town. And the tire marks.
For now, though, Mob looks content to munch on fruit snacks and Reese’s snack mix.
“What else?” The child whispers after his mouth isn’t full. Arataka spares him a glance from the driver’s seat.
“Well, don’t get in people’s cars just cause they offer you candy. That’s how you get kidnapped. Uh, and…”
“No…” Mob shakes his head, “The spirits.”
Arataka tenses, his grip on the wheel tightening. He laughs a little, “Oh, the spirits like you. They think you’re…” Arataka pauses, observing the little boy in torn pajamas and covered in blood (he’s not going to deny it anymore). The little boy who wraps himself in a tattered blanket and looks at Arataka like he’s something amazing.
Reigen Arataka makes a show of tilting his head, as if listening to something. He widens his eyes, turning to Mob with a rather final look, “The spirits told me that you’re very brave, Mob.”
Mob’s cheeks dust with the slightest bit of pink, and his dull eyes sparkle in the way only little kids’ are capable of doing. God, Arataka is going to have a heart attack right here at the wheel.
Arataka tells Mob all about the spirits he didn’t just make up as they drive, always keeping a hand on the wheel even as he waves his hands with the stories he spins. Neither of them even notice how close they are to town until the sign pops up. Mob is too busy paying rapt attention as Arataka tells him all about how he exorcised a group of biker ghosts in an abandoned train tunnel, or saved a farm from an evil scarecrow that was eating all the crops.
The town they approach is a small suburb on the edge of his city, maybe ten minutes from it. It’s kind of out of the way from his apartment, but gas is cheap at the station they have there. He pulls into the gas station slowly, and it’s eerily quiet outside. Usually, there’s a person or two standing around outside to help with the cans. But there’s nobody outside. In fact, it looks like whoever was here just ditched their car. It’s odd and has Reigen taking a screwdriver from his front compartment to wield as they approach.
“Hey, Mob. Why don’t we head inside here and I’ll get you some real food, like one of those premade lunch boxes or something, Kay?”
Arataka digs his (admittedly not very full) wallet from his pocket, opening the door of his car and crossing to the other side to let Mob out. The kid nods, jumping out while holding onto the elder’s arm. “Not a man of many words, are you, Mob?”
Arataka figures whoever’s working inside right now knows what’s happening, or at least has a phone to call the police with in case something’s wrong with Arataka’s. The bell dings as he opens the door, but nausea hijacks his senses as soon as he steps inside. It smells like blood and rot, which makes a lot of sense once he observes the scene.
Because lying on the floor of the store, just behind one of the aisles, is two dead bodies.