d. fyodor x reader x o.dazai | You had been destined to die from the beginning. Through you does she slip, like sunlight through a sieve, settling onto the ruins of future human relationships, thereby destroying any chance of existence. Dead before...
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"I'VE RE-INVENTED FIRE."
Your sweat is damp and sticky against your skin as you slide out of bed, your throat feeling like sand had been poured down it. You clear your throat multiple times, only to no avail; you needed water.
You think long and hard about the dream you have had about mom and her words: how she knew you were destined to be a terrorist just by the nature of your ability. She said it wasn't all your fault, but that sentence betrayed the fact that some part of it was your fault. A claustrophobic tightening feeling enclosed around your heart at the thought that she had ended her life to save yours from spiralling: the ultimate sacrifice that you had mistaken as selfishness and a desire to leave this cold, cruel world.
I'll do good, Mom.
You swallow the spit rising to your mouth at the thought of confronting Fyodor and the rest of his comrades. You knew that you were just a sentient chess piece to him, and the thought of a pawn going awry would send the entire game crumbling. And you promised him last night: that you wouldn't defect; not until you had a clear understanding why mom killed herself because of you.
It was partly your fault.
It was time to finally look into yourself.
You get out of bed and find your coat where the Agency number card was, picking up the burner phone and leaving a message for voicemail.
"Hello, to whoever is listening to this. My name is (last name) (first name). I am part of the Decay of the Angels with Fyodor. This call is to message you Agency members about how I will defect by morning, Please be at the following address with police the moment this message comes through."
You give them the secret address of the headquarters.
It's still dawn when you get up, and walking down the corridors of the headquarters before the sun rose seenned like a divine act: the walls were painted silver with the frozen moon suspended on the dark, velvet sky; the floors were gleaming from polish and made a squeaking noise everytime you took a step; the corridors seemed to stretch out forever, its ends teeming with darkness and shadows. You feel like Bluebeard's bride left alone in the grandiose innards of his castle, each closed room a mouth, waiting to be opened to speak of the human tragedy that occured there.
"I did hear someone screaming," A voice sounds out to your right just as you enter the kitchen, shoulders jolting in surprise at the sight of Fyodor peeling an apple with a knife. The blade gleams menacingly in the dark. "Was it you?"
