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four days after
– JR Platform 1, Shin-Yokohama Station, Yokohama, Kanagawa –
[at the center of it all]
“…The train isn’t coming, huh.”
“Of course, dumbass.” He sighs as he thinks about moving, but deems it too bothersome. His head is against one bony shoulder, his own shoulder pressed against the cool albeit slightly dusty floors. “There’s a goddamn fuck of a zombie apocalypse out there, after all.”
“Language, Chuuya!”
He thinks about biting the other’s shoulder for that remark. It’s too bothersome, so he just wriggles in his place to cause maximum discomfort. “I’ll curse if I want to, you fuckwad.”
“Noooo, don’t you know that you’re not supposed to use the z-word?”
“The news reports called them zombies already.” He didn’t get to watch a lot of TV before everything went apeshit though. “What else am I supposed to call them?”
“Hmm.”
“So what now?”
“What now indeed.”
What now indeed – for they are stranded in the middle of the raised platform, the last bullet train’s operations not even a full week ago. Going to Tokyo now means walking on foot, with train stations overridden by zombies and most of the country drowned in pandemonium. Public transport is useless and the roads are occupied by abandoned cars and the writhing masses of once-humans infected by a strange fever that causes them to become mindless, drooling hordes eager to see blood and flesh. Given that the city is highly urbanized – the only other source of blood and flesh happen to be humans. The zombies don’t seem to mind.
“…We can just stay here.”
It feels like it’s been ages since it’s just been the two of them, unbothered and untouched by anyone else.
“If that’s what you want, Chuuya.”
Dazai Osamu then shifts so he can half-hug the smaller body half-draped on top of him, the two of them safe and content together in the middle of the end of the world.
four days after
– Rashomon Gate, Suzaku-ouji Boulevard, Great Imperial Palace, Kyoto –
[tyger tyger burning bright, in the forests of the west]
“Are you okay, Akutagawa?”
“…there’s no need…” a cough, “…to ask every…” another cough, “five minutes.”
“I’m worried about you,” Atsushi has never been shy in speaking his mind towards Akutagawa, after all. Though, he’d prefer it if Akutagawa stops flinching each time he says such things.
“I’ll...”
Be fine, they don’t say.
Atsushi wipes at the blood on Akutagawa’s mouth using his own lips.
Before, Akutagawa used to fight this kind of display.
Now, Akutagawa is more-or-less resigned to Atsushi doing whatever he wants—
“Niisama, look how close they are! We should copy them~♥”
“Naomi—!!!”
—wherever he wants.
“Stop all your nonsense!” Kunikida looks like a blood vessel will pop on his temple. “We need to move quickly, quietly and efficiently!”
“You’re yelling, Kunikida-san,” Kenji comments with a laugh, stretching his limbs in-between throwing away the cars littering the road.
“I’m not yelling!”
“You are,” Ranpo and Yosano chime in together. In return, Kunikida glares – some would say a little too harshly – at Ranpo in particular.
“Let’s go,” Fukuzawa walks towards the southern gate to Kyoto’s Imperial Palace, all while wiping the blood and fleshy bits off his sword. “We need to set up camp before nightfall.”
“Yes sir!”
Atsushi doesn’t bother saluting along with the members of the Agency, though he does hook an arm around Akutagawa’s shoulders in order to help guide the other towards their destination.
“Let’s go, Akutagawa,” he murmurs, his hold tightening the slightest bit when he hears the telltale groaning catching up to them.
He considers himself pretty much as an easygoing person, but there’s something impossibly irritating about the fact that this world seems dead-set on hurting Akutagawa. Two years ago, one year ago, and even now.
If only it’s possible to save Akutagawa from all this—
If only—
four days after
– JAXA Facility, Tanegashima –
[phoenix rising from the southern ashes]
“All clear,” Steinbeck says dully, seemingly not minding the imprint on his cheek from his hours-long post with the sniper rifle pressed against his face. He’s the poster child for natural talent when it comes to killing things – going from a man simply focused in finding the most lucrative way of earning enough dime to feed his starving family, to a man still focused on gaining as much resources (money is nothing but printed paper nowadays) as he can in order to survive.
Twain is still alternating between dry-heaving and actually puking his guts out whenever his target’s brain splatters like some gross-petaled flower, leaving Steinbeck to handle all sniping duties.
Thankfully, it doesn’t take much training for him to get used to shooting the mindless droves of raging once-people. It doesn’t take much time for him to stop his fingers from shaking and stop his heart from wincing with each shot.
“Good job, good job,” their boss says while sipping at his champagne. How he’s able to still find champagne in this world—no, this person has his own cellar with enough space to fit a small country. Of course he has enough drinks—the only thing, is that, who in their right minds would merrily sip drinks and relax while the world crumbles around them.
Mousy countenance hiding the incredible strategies inside her head, Alcott meekly speaks up from a few meters behind their oh-so-great leader. “L-Lovecraft and Poe are working on the rockets…”
Steinbeck hasn’t really seen Lovecraft and Poe interact – they’re probably working in companionable silence right now – but he supposes that they must be the best combination needed to handle the checking of the rockets. He’s not even sure why they’re here, hijacking JAXA. Figures – Fitzgerald probably thinks that instead of using plain old yachts or private jets, he’s going to use a space rocket to escape to safety.
“Ah. Y-You should go back to your post,” Alcott speaks up again – Steinbeck almost doesn’t realize that she’s speaking to him, “…Strategy 78-A says that there’s going to be some attackers coming from the northeast in eight minutes.”
Steinbeck lets his gaze linger, allowing uneasiness to make redness bloom in Alcott’s cheeks. Their oh-so-wealthy leader continues to sip his champagne while he checks his phone. Given that most of the cell towers have been overrun by zombies, Fitzgerald is probably just playing some game in his phone.
“…Okay.”
Fitzgerald’s expression doesn’t change.
Figures – nothing fazes that man, whether it be his daughter’s death, whether it be his estate being looted in the middle of the chaos, whether it be the end of the world.
It’s too much to hope that he’d change if everything crumbles around him.
Steinbeck lingers a little bit more, before making his way back to his sniping post.
four days after
– Imperial Palace, Chiyoda Ward, Kyoto –
[to the east, the dragon rages]
“…Hmm, so this is what being an Emperor feels like.”
“You look stupid, Rintarou!”
“Ooooh, that hurts, my dear Elise!”
“Stupid, stupid, Rintarou is stupid!”
Nobody bats an eye at the standard comedy routine being performed in front of them. Batting an eye means being unprepared; being unprepared means death.
Higuchi frets and frets and frets though, wringing her hands, wiping her sweaty palms on her slacks. It’s been too long since she heard from her senpai and she’s overcome with worry. Is he fine? Is he eating well? Is he managing to sleep? Is he still alive? Nobody comments on her high-strung tension, though not due to lack of trying. It’s been like this for the past couple of days and everyone’s ability to deal with her has already dried out.
One could say that worrying over Akutagawa Ryuunosuke should fall under someone else’s job description – namely, his sister – but Gin continues to stand stoically beside the other members of Mori Ougai’s security squad.
Mori’s standing as one of Japan’s most important figures is already fairly significant even prior to the outbreak, after all. Now that the number of zombies is steadily climbing up, the number of people who can be counted on to develop a cure is dwindling. It’s laughably ironic that one of the main sponsors of that research is now being protected as one of the few people who have the brains and the influence to search for a cure.
Leaning with his back against the wall, Tachihara fiddles with his phone, alternating between swiping his finger across the lock screen and locking his phone again. There’s signal in his phone but there are no messages. It’s possible that he’s in an area without cell reception. It’s possible that he’s lost his phone. It’s possible that he’s too busy fighting for his life. It’s not possible that he’s dead.
Tachihara knocks shoulders against Gin, knowing that the other’s stomach is filled with worry similar to his. Birds of the same feather flock together and all that.
Tachihara’s gaze sweep around the room: Higuchi wearing the carpet down in one corner from her constant walking; Kouyou accepting the cup of tea from Hirotsu at the other end of the room; Motojirou entertaining Q with some card tricks; some unknown guy looking entirely too relaxed near the doorway; and of course – Mori and Elise playing tag around the Emperor’s throne.
There’s a couple of people missing, mostly due to their lack of tenacity to keep holding on. Tachihara’s a fairly new addition to the group, but he’s been able to rise through the ranks because he’s motivated to do so.
Gin calls him a lovesick fool.
He considers himself a lovesick fool, despite batting her allegations away.
He fiddles with his phone again.
Still no message.
His most recent text is from Hirotsu: a message to everyone in the Port Pharmaceutical Group (at least, that’s what they’re registered in the Stock Exchange as), calling those who are still alive to convene in the Imperial Palace.
Still no new message.
Still no message from the person he’d like to hear from the most.
Still no message from one Nakahara Chuuya, the guy that he’s been in love with for the past three years.
four days after
– Hakodate Airport, Hokkaido –
[the patient turtle waits in the north]
One computer is split into multiple feeds – mostly darkened, some full of static. It’s enough to give him the big picture, tracking movements of his pawns. Even those areas that his eyes and ears cannot reach – even those are easily predicted. Even if one or ten of his predictions deviate from the specific predictions, the overall picture remains the same.
It can almost be called boring.
But he waits inside the Hakodate Airport, the rendezvous point previously agreed-upon by the people he’s funding.
To be honest, he was 99% prepared to unleash the virus on his own.
It’s great that a certain person exceeded his expectations.
He didn’t think they would actually release the virus, but four days ago, they proved him wrong.
It wasn’t as boring then.
He leans forward and collapses against the table, at least around the space not occupied by his laptop.
Everyone’s so slow, he probably can sleep for two days until they arrive here.
- first intermission -
four half-years ago
[
the one and only
]
“People die all the time.”
“…You don’t have to act so tough.”
“OdaSaku, I don’t see a point in mourning.”
“Even so, weren’t you lovers?”
“Ha!” Dazai laughs and gets some quiet glares from the staff attending the funeral. It’s laughably stupid, how even in things like this, there still needs to be some measure of pretend – pretending that there are this many people caring about some dumb, dead body inside the casket. “He’s probably rolling in his grave just for that remark, OdaSaku.”
“He didn’t strike me as someone who’d do something like that.”
“Which goes to say why you weren’t his lover then.”
“…So you do admit you were lovers.”
“Mmm, I don’t remember denying it.”
“It’s rare to see you honest.”
Dazai smiles, razor-sharp, as he breathes in the heavy scent of incense. “You’re calling me a liar, OdaSaku?”
“Yes.”
“How blunt!” Dazai doesn’t sound like he minds though. “How very like you.”
“But if he was your lover, then I don’t understand…”
“Why I’m not crying right now?” Dazai cuts off the other’s speech with a decisive tone. “People die all the time. It’s not something that we can avoid, can we? Chuuya’s time was just up, that’s all.”