Ingenue || Bungou Stray Dogs × Fem!Reader

7

She, as befitting as she appeared to be, was never meant for a life in the Armed Detective Agency.

That fact she had known for the longest time. She had no place in the light, as a flower blossomed in the darkness, after all, was bound to live in the darkness, and in that lack of light shall it bloom the loveliest of petals it could ever bear. In the Armed Detective Agency had she discerned all the wonderful flowers she wasn't aware could ever exist until then, and, once upon a dream, she bore the thought of ever being as beautiful as they were.

But at the present moment she supposed the camellias stood the most exceptional among them all, because at the very least they didn't bring an abhorrence so painstakingly obvious to her; at least their judgement scratched not the decrepitude of her mind; at least they had not the conscious to break her soul and deprecate her into;

into a sangria-dripping crestfallen marionette unworthy of recognition for a place in the light where she would just burn to the ground and her highly insignificant ashes would be carried not by the wind but weighed down by the curse of her four hundred and ninety-seven victims and disgraced and maltreated and stepped on by the people who knew of her sins and then she came to wonder why the president out of pity accepted her into the poison-tipped spike-induced arms of the Armed Detective Agency when they were only ever so capable of giving a one-man malady to her already grief-stricken mind-

A knock from the door caused an accident to her train of thought.

Go away, she thought in profound silent frustration, you are neither a pill to my pain nor a cure to my infectious misery.

But when the knocking became a ceaseless sound to hear that had her thinking if it had been only her imagination, she stood up amid emotional turmoil and ambled towards the source of so.

Upon opening the door did her mouth come in dismal terms with a moistened fabric, though as quick as it was to cover her lips, she held her breath within a fraction of the second it flew towards her - that, much to her distress, stopped not the effects of the asphyxiant. Her offender appeared to outfit a business suit, accompanied by dark aviator glasses which was undoubtedly similar to Port Mafia attire, nonetheless she knew better than to assume they were from the mafia; birds of the same feathers grow well-acquainted with one another.

"Not Edogawa Ranpo." She heard him say. "We have the wrong person."

"What do you want with him?" Interrogated the detective upon hearing her colleague's name. In immediate response with the asphyxiant, she fell to the ground, her arm scarcely supporting her own weight against the door frame.

Yet all the perpetrator generously offered was a mere side glance as is she were a specter bound to ignorance - ridiculously enough, she had gotten used to the way the agency had done the same to her.

"Does it matter?" He told his companion. "Either way, the Armed Detective Agency will still feel obliged to rescue her. Take the girl."

As the first man took initiative to manhandle her into his shoulder, she accumulated accelerated effort with what remained of her tenacity, unbridled her pocket knife and stabbed him rather violently on the trapezius. This therefore released her from his grip, though he threw her with so much force that had her sliding on the ground, only stopping when she used her elbows as friction to prevent her from distancing farther. They burned and ached and pained her a lot, but adrenaline left her too busy to care; she stared at the man as he stomped madly over to her figure.

"You bitch!" He howled powerfully, a hand of his coming in brutal contact with her cheek, and she held the yelp that caught up her throat if that meant to prevent him from feeling sadistic satisfaction upon hearing his abusee's expressive discontent.

She ceased to yield. Her hand reached on another pocket for her licensed gun, and she pulled it out with a strong, adamant contempt forwarded to both men ahead of her. She aimed for a limb - only an injury and not another body to her kill count. Only flesh and not a life. A petal and not a flower.

But to prevail wasn't for her to decide, quite unfortunately. Time was what she failed to take note of, having had faith on the swiftness she thought was adequate enough, considering the deleterious toll of the asphyxiating inhalant on her person.

She seemed to have wondered a fraction of a second longer as to why smoke was coming out of the man's gun, until she felt immense pain on the shoulder of the arm which her holding of the gun depended on. Languidly, her limb dropped beside her, and she was quite unable to hold in the scream scratching so flagrantly on her throat.

Her midriff fell thereafter, and only then did the asphyxiant regard the last of her consciousness nonexistent. Her eyes closed in what she thought (hoped) to be eternal rest, disclosing her absolute vulnerability to her fortunate abductors.