ANGEL'S ASHES, bungou stray dogs [on hold]

xxvii. new boss and executive

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𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋'𝐒 𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒

𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺-𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯: 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘣𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥
𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦

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𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨

     TRUTH BE TOLD, ANGEL never thought the day would come: her standing in front of the man that brought her to the front door of the Port Mafia in the first place and calling him "Boss." But it seems as though the Fates are having fun playing even more games with her. Even more unsettling, standing beside the doctor is the bandaged brunet from yesterday, his eyes darker than Angel remembers, and drowning from simply being alive. Those void-like eyes are trained on her, no flicker of recognition in their deathly dark depths, and it feels like they're seeing into what remains of her soul, dredging up the barely restrained darkness.

     "What can I do for you, Mr Mori?" Angel asks, leaning against one of the beams between the large windows on the left side of the room. "Surely I'm nothing more than a pain in your ass, or the one thing our enemies can use against you now that the Boss is dead. You going to have me killed to stop any chance of that?"

     "Oh, nothing of the sort, my dear," Mori dismisses with a wave of his hand, seeming to be startled at her simple suggestion. "In fact, I want to offer you a place by my side." His left hand motions towards Dazai, and Angel fights the urge to roll her eyes. "Dazai here has already taken up my offer, and I believe the two of you would work quite well together."

     "An Executive." Angel shakes her head and stalks over to the desk, slamming her hands down onto the hardwood. "A fucking Executive. That's your idea of compensation?!" Narrowing her eyes, Angel watches as Mori shifts backwards and Dazai's gaze stays firmly trained on her, body tensed to move between Angel and the so-called 'new Boss of the Port Mafia' if need be. "You want me to work with someone I've never met before in my life? Someone who could be some spy, or someone who could kill me without a moment's notice?"

     "I can assure you that Dazai would hardly be someone you have to watch your back around, my dear. If anything, he'd probably have to watch his back around you, if I were to be honest with you."

     Scoffing, Angel barely has the strength to keep her Ability in check at her turbulent emotions, and it seems as though Dazai is beginning to realise that as well. "Sorry, but I'm not about to throw myself in the line of fire — especially at the request of someone like you, Ōgai Mori. I will not be your fucking puppet anymore than I was the Boss'!"

     "Angel—" Dazai's words stop at Angel's livid glare, his dark brown eyes widening slightly and the hand he was reaching for her with freezing in mid-motion.

     "Our Boss is dead under very suspicious circumstances, and now you want me to accept you as the new Boss? With this bandaged freak as one of your Executives?" Mori stiffens as Angel worms her Ability around his throat, warning him to choose what he has to say very carefully. "Being an Executive for you will only make everything so much more real than it already is, and I want no part in whatever hell you're planning on raising, pseudo-Boss. All I wanted was a home; I didn't want to be a part of this fucking Organisation in the first place, but you dragged me here and let them make me into a weapon! Now you're going to see just how good a weapon I am."

     Before Angel gets much of a chance to kill the black-haired man, a lithe hand clamps around her wrist and there's a familiar glow of blue as her Ability is forced into submission, caged away back inside her body. It's warm, the hand, so warm that it feels as though it's burning through her skin, but she can't complain. Angel is never warm no matter how many layers she wears; she doesn't feel the cold even when the canal is frozen over and blood-spattered snow blankets the ground in the dead of winter; she doesn't feel the scorching heat of the violent, molten summers like that of branding irons that starts fires that rage and burn everything in their paths to the ground.

     Temperature has never been Angel's biggest concern, but the warmth created by a simple touch from this boy... It's already addictive, and she knows that, one day, she won't be able to go one day without feeling this warmth — his warmth — no matter what she does. One day, Angel may well die being swathed by this warmth, and she finds that it may well not be the worst way to go. However, no matter how addictive this warmth may be, right now is not the best of times to be considering dying with it by her side; with him by her side.

     Ripping her wrist free of his grasp, Angel stares at Dazai with an unreadable expression. "Don't you dare touch me, you bastard. Do you see me touching you? No, so keep your fucking hands to yourself!"

     A part of her wishes for Dazai to stop her as Angel turns her back on the murderer and accomplice, but she is also glad she gets the chance to slam the heavy wooden doors behind her as she storms out of the Boss' office, not caring about the rattling glass panes of the windows — or even those that shatter. Every member of the Port Mafia Angel comes across are quick to let her pass, trying their best to hide themselves in the shadows and out of her line of sight. They know that she is not one to mess with, and she's glad, because she really doesn't want to be cleaning up crushed corpses no matter the satisfaction she gets from creating them.

     It's a few hours later that someone knocks at Angel's door, entering without waiting for her response. Although, it's not as though she'd be giving a response right now — especially considering that Angel already knows who'd be stupid enough to find her after her outburst. Sure enough, the bandaged brunet slips into her room and shuts the door behind himself, leaning against the splintering wood with a blank expression, quite obviously trying to read her by the way his eyes move over her. Looking up at him from where Angel is laying on the floor, she waves her hand in a "make yourself comfortable" way, slightly startled when he sits down beside the young girl, sighing and rubbing his eye.

     "That wasn't what I was expecting," he admits lowly, seemingly not wanting to set her off again. "I honestly thought you'd take Mori up on his offer. The Ashen Reaper of the Port Mafia. They say you're a beast, tenshi."

     "Maybe one day, if he offers again, I might take his offer, but not today." Angel sighs and shakes her head. "And a beast? I suppose you could call me that." Sitting up, his gaze darts to her instantly. "Tell me, Osamu Dazai, how old do you think I am?"

     "From appearance alone I'd say about the same age as me, 14. But you're not that old, are you?"

     "I'm 12 as of last month, and I already have the reputation of a well-renowned assassin for one of the most chaotic Organisations on the continent, maybe even the world. A twelve-year-old girl has more blood on her hands than most retired assassins, and you're still sitting right next to me without batting an eye. What's wrong with you?"

     "This world is oxidising, and I don't want to live in it." Dazai's words are simple but powerful, and they strike something deep inside Angel. Reaching out, he gently pushes the sleeve of her shirt up, revealing the mutilated flesh of her arm. "Something tells me you'd rather not be in it either, tenshi. So many people have hurt you, and yet you continue to live. Why is that?"

     Angel shivers at the arrival of his warmth once again, her hand coming to rest over where his is tracing the scars on her left arm. "Something's been telling me to keep fighting for years, and it's strangely quiet now. What is it about you that makes me want to live so badly? I don't even know you, but you've already quieted so many of the voices just by touching me. Who are you, Osamu Dazai?"