Chapter Text
“I swear to you that to think too much is a disease, a real, actual disease”
- Dostoevsky's 'Notes From The Underground'
When he finally obtains consciousness, the first thing Dazai notices is the sickening moldy scent and darkness. His eyes are open, but they see nothing of the cellar. He bangs his head against the wall he’s chained to; the sound proves that he still has his sense of hearing. His brain pounds against his aching skull, and suddenly there’s a light pitter-patter: a noise that could cause insanity.
The tingly numbness of his bloodless fingers, stretched above him, are burnt with a chain made of ice. His awareness of this sensation immediately renders any pain suppressant useless. He registers the all too familiar sense of pain. It's felt in such unfamiliar places: his eye sockets, fingernails, and burning lungs...instead of in the flesh where it is common, the usual parts, his wrists. Apart from the more common, obvious indicators of physical torture, his burning lungs are proof of a new method, a sort of gas attack damage.
It’s either he’s in solitary confinement or someone is as silent as a statue. Regardless of whether there was someone present or not, “there could be cameras” he notes to himself. Anyone could have done this, with his numerous enemies, it’s no surprise, and they have their mundane threats against him.
A captor may say, “We will kill you!” if they are unaware of his suicidal tendencies.
Plenty have played broken telephone with a classic threat, “Say goodbye to (insert name of current partner or boss)!”
A rat used for product testing probably has it better.
Unlike Dazai, it is only caged until it provides the intended outcome, or dies. Dazai has been caged countless times both literally and metaphorically, sometimes for no reason at all. Both are subjected to profanity, torture, and suffering from humans.
The mentioned threats were common ones, but whoever had threatened to gouge out his eyeballs had finally done it.
With his mind intact, he does not hesitate to act. He attempts to feel around for the lock of the chain. If it weren’t for the sound of the chain, he would not be sure that his fingers are moving at all. The only feeling in his fingers is of 'aching from how void of any feeling there is'. He tries kicking a leg and discovers that he is standing upright, at least that’s how it seems. With his various enemies, including various powerful ability users, this may just be a simulation or dream of some sort. That is Dazai’s conclusion before he recalls his own ability, No Longer Human, both a blessing and curse. He continues to move his fingers against the chain. Apart from the pain, his distorted sense of touch makes him unsure of what he is doing. He softens his pounding heart with steady breaths while continuing to test his chains.
“Scheming as usual, Dazai?”
Oh, that dreadful voice; it only adds to his confusion.
This doesn’t make any sense, he would say if he weren’t so out of sorts.
Whoever had been manhandling him, before he was knocked out, was clearly inexperienced. Everyone knows victims are crushed worse when they feel they have the means to escape the situation...right? and that waterboarding should never be done in equally timed intervals. Any expert in the field would drag out the suffering, not rush. It was nothing like the Port Mafia’s methods, so why the fuck was Chuuya here?
Dazai attempts to speak; only screeches and croaks come out. His stomach tightens, his pulse quickens at the idea his throat had been destroyed. What benefit can he be without his means of negotiation or manipulation? He visualized his throat having been slashed and bleeding out or having been force fed a piece of hot coal that melted not only his esophagus but his larynx, permanently robbing him of his most critical tool. He does not remember such a thing happening to him.
Overthinking is a curse. A simple yet deep cough alleviated his problem. This does not ease Dazai’s mind much since he recalls what he intuitively knows is an incomplete memory. He groans in contempt, unable to fully utilize his mental recollection. For a fleeting moment, a pale ghost wearing an ushanka flickered in and out of his mind. A piece of relevant words as well…(quote)...Dazai gulps before utilizing his master tool: his words.
Dazai’s cocky façade colors his words. “Are you my prince in shining armour? Or are you in on this?”
“You’re serious? You really don’t remember?” His former partner seems thrilled.
Dazai considered acting as if he knew what was going on, but the last things he remembers are sessions of pain and his swan dive into the chilling Yokohama river, another failed attempt at self-asphyxiation. His mind’s eye shows nothing of how he got here.
“Remember what??”
A long pause is followed by approaching steps. Dazai’s stomach twists. His former partner’s huffing is now audible, smacking Dazai’s logic out of him, momentarily. Intrusion enters his internal monologue: “That intoxicating scent…” There's something about his rich cologne, proximity, and overall situation that sends sparks flying. For a brief moment, a scene straight out of a porno flashes within him. Consequently, a lift occurs. The awkward silence is broken by plastic ripping, knocking him with Port Mafia PTSD. He has done the same to too many: stabbing them with needles, playing with their body's sense of itself, and all the classic types of torture. Great memories coming back indeed but none that can get him out of these chains.
“Slug, what am I supposed to remember?” he croaks.
“What am I supposed to remember?” Chuuya mocked, spitting the pathetic words all over Dazai’s face.
“Nothing at all.” Chuuya answers coldly, before he stabs a needle deep into the muscle of Dazai’s thigh.
Dazai gives no reaction; It doesn't benefit either of them. “What for?” is his only inquiry.
“For us.”