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Woe unto the wicked! it shall be ill with him: for the reward of his hands shall be given him. - ISAIAH 3:11

[fleshfruits]

“who is she?”

her voice is soft and unassuming, without accusation. she hardly remembered the girl's existence, much less her name. her eyes are fixed to the damp splotches on the floor where she did her best to dispose of the evidence. it's the interruption of their particular momentum that has her so shaken. they have, however attenuated, a routine; a vaguely predictable give-and-take to sustain her right at the edge of madness. he's taken a great deal from her this time, and she didn't come prepared to bare what was left to a stranger.

“what would she make you beg for?”

she asks as if he were not in the room, as if the answer doesn't matter, because it doesn't. she's largely disinterested in what he gets up to on his own time—a man is only worth as much as his best kept secrets—but this is not his time now, the torch has changed hands. he owes her an explanation, if nothing else.

[undeific]

Izaya follows her gaze to the floor, trying to untangle the peculiar feeling in his guts, his throat. There is nothing to suggest he’s come home to a crime scene—Delilah wouldn’t have bothered to clean up the evidence if it were—but it feels that way regardless. He laughs, partially to expel the coiled energy, partially at the absurdity of his own unease. 

          “We both married icy blondes. Her name’s Tem.”          He says it with all the cool detachment one would expect.          “Shinra’s dad wanted me to look out for her. She’s Nebula property.” 

There’s an unpleasant scent lingering beneath the disinfectant, bitter and organic, fetid. Vomit? 

          “As for begging, I take it you’re talking about the knife? She was giving me the cold shoulder for a while, so I was making a statement. ‘Don’t make me beg for attention. Don’t make me beg for forgiveness.’”          He waves his hand dismissively.          “Was she here? She plays tough but she’s got the constitution of a little baby fawn. You didn’t scare her, did you?” 

[batoushoujo]

　　IT'S NOT OVER, THOUGH. It should be, but it's not. Waking up in Nebula's examination rooms should've been the end of that weird nightmare, making way for annoyance at her predicament. She should be able to tease Izaya for showing up, as if she means something. Not just to him, but to anyone at all. Instead, she can't escape the bad dream she's been thrown into―or really, it's more like she's been forced to wake up.

　　Tem lowers her head further, leaning forward to rest it against the door. The heat is starting to get to her now, sitting out here in it, next to a running car. Some of the ac flows out, but it's not enough to help. Maybe it's the concoction Emilia gave her, or maybe it's how disconnected she feels from her own self right now, but she can't even think to use her own abilities to cool herself down.

　　It takes a bit, and a few tries, but at last, Tem shakes her and manage to croak out,

　　“I... I thought he was coming to save me. But―but I... When I thought he was there, I should've... When I thought it was him, I should've been happy... But I... I was scared.”　She lifts her head, and looks up at Izaya; distant, pained, panicked. And like she's going to cry. Her hand digs into the fur lining of the coat.

　　“I was so relieved when it was you.”

[undeific]

Finally, in the blinding sunshine at the side of the road, she gives him what he’s been wanting: raw, unfiltered vulnerability. A normal husband—a good husband, a real husband—would not be so giddy to see his wife in tears. He would not see it as a success. There would be no elation. But Izaya is not a normal husband, or a good one, and especially not a real one. 

I was so relieved when it was you. His heart hammers in his chest, a victory drum. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her. Then he retrieves the bottled water from the car, uncapping it and holding it to her lips. 

          “And it’s still me. I’ll take care of you. There’s nothing to be afraid of now.”          

He isn’t so naive as to think that he’s conquered the ghost once and for all, but this is quite the landmark battle to have won. Enjoy this, he tells himself, peering into Tem’s watery eyes. Soak it in, remember every detail.

He wants to kiss her again, but the situation is delicate. He settles for stroking her hair instead, encouraging her to drink.

[wickdcreatures]

the  only  indication  minsu  is  surprised  at  all  is  the  small  quirk  of  his  eyebrows,  the  gentle  fluttering  of  his  lashes.  that’s  an  awful  lot  of  money,  and  were  minsu  a  better  person  he  might  feel  a  little  bad.  on  second  thought,  maybe  he  does  —  there  is  a  sinking,  pulling  feeling  in  his  gut,  a  feeling  he  is  very  quick  to  ignore.  he  doesn’t  want  to  feel  shame.  he  didn’t  do  anything  wrong,  not  this  time.

shame  is  such  a  bitter  flavor  on  his  tongue.  he  hates  the  way  it  sours  his  perception.  minsu  opts  to  take  a  sip  of  his  coffee.

“  why  in  the  world  would  i  want  him  to  think  i’m  dead?  he  can  know  exactly  where  i’m  located,  for  all  i  care.  would  you  like  my  new  phone  number  so  that  you  can  wring  more  out  of  him?  ”

there  is  a  very  small,  quiet  part  of  minsu  that  feels  oddly  touched  by  the  gesture.  so  starved  of  connection,  he  finds  it  a  little  flattering  he  is  so  sought  after.  he  still  has  kangho’s  number,  maybe  he  will  be  the  one  to  open  communication  again…

“  he  did  this  to  himself.  all  i  ever  did  was  sell  to  him,  i  can’t  be  responsible  for  his  misplaced  affection.  but  i’ll  happily  profit  off  of  it.  ”

[undeific]

          “Wonderful!”          Izaya sing-songs, pleased as punch with the way this has gone.          “Go ahead and give me that number, then.”

Ultimately he won’t give Kangho such easy access. The phone number will be withheld, kept instead for his own use; the idiot will have to put in the extra effort to contact Minsu himself. Izaya has done his part by finding him alive, and he will report back with the necessary information for next steps, but there’s no need to make it easy for the kid. If he’s committed to this self-destructive crush then he has to prove it. Put in the work.

Izaya leans back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. Narrowed eyes glimmer with dancing lights: curiosity, appraisal, amusement. He’s grinning all the while.          “You must be fun at parties.”

Not a psychopath. There is too much seething vulnerability in his detachment. No, he’s more like that Anri girl-thing, and in some ways Delilah. The necessity of his vacancy is desperate. Izaya has been watching him enough; he’s seen the scars. But he genuinely doesn’t seem to mind doing this, and maybe even finds some pleasure in it—so where does that leave him? A self-loathing sadist with a not-quite-right air about him, like he forgot to turn a switch on inside himself. What a fucking weirdo. He likes him.

He laughs.          “I know that sounds sarcastic, but I mean it.”

[storge]

Until two years ago, you were a legendary hacker. Your internet alias was "Falcon." When we discovered that you were only a junior high student, we were really surprised. We want Falcon to help us. We want you to hack into their computer. You mean you want me to commit a crime? If you think that way, you already committed a crime two years ago. Since your ability could save people, why don't you use it?

MIURA HARUMA as Takagi “Falcon” Fujimaru Bloody Monday (2008-2010) 1.01 "One person's life!? 10 million people's lives!?'

[polycephebi]

It really can't be denied, it takes everything in his power to do the same.

In fact, as soon as he sets foot outside the building, he resigns himself to practical torture for the sake of the game, the mystery -- the delight of two entire marshmallows from good ol' Walter.

He spends the rest of the day idling about Ikebukuro, by all accounts aimless, but taking notes, collecting a cursory understanding of the fabled city that can only be experienced on the ground floor. He's careful to leave no further mark of himself, though. Speaks to no one beyond idle chatter, bumps no shoulders, leaves no scuff of his shoe. This isn't his city, after all, no matter how remarkable it proves to be -- and nor is the one he returns to at the end of the day.

When he arrives, late at night, at the apartment signed to Seth, he takes a bath and washes off everything. And when he sleeps, finally, it's not in Ikebukuro nor Funabashi, but in Kashiwa. His town. His world. The place where things that matter actually live.

And he spends the rest of the week there, living his real life, ignoring the ghosts and playthings of the made-up worlds of Funabashi and Ikebukuro. He refuses to return besides to attend humdrum acts of normalcy, to maintain the illusion of Seth's existence ; meetings, grocery runs, saying hello to neighbors, and then abandoning the shell of a human once again.

He lives in Kashiwa. Everything lives in Kashiwa. He wonders if Izaya will find his way there.

He really can't stop wondering it.

The anticipation of the week's end twists like a knife in his stomach.

When he returns to that cafe, it's on the dot ; 7 days, and not one minute more nor less. And yet no matter the surgical precision of it, he then glides in easily, and scans the shop warmly, as if his guts weren't about to burst from ravaging need.

[undeific]

Izaya, meanwhile, goes on a research odyssey. Of course he tends to his business as well; there are clients to see and shit to stir, but his free moments are consumed by attempts to unravel his new friend’s secrets. He scours message boards, reaches out to contacts with connections, digs into classified databases—and finds next to nothing.

It isn’t that Seth is a complete ghost. He doesn’t appear to be in hiding. There’s documentation of him, though the information is minimal, surface-level. Hardly more than simple confirmations of his existence, really. For all intents and purposes, he’s just another nondescript body in Tokyo. A few of Izaya’s contacts did come through with a handful of first-person accounts of what it’s like to work with him, but the reports were skeletal at best: he appears when you need him, suddenly and eerily, then disappears just as quickly. Occasionally he’s been seen lingering on the outskirts of goings-on, watching, “a lot like you actually, Orihara, come to think of it.” 

The vagueness of it all is maddening—especially because these obstacles are less dead ends than they are noncommittal shrugs. Seth is an information broker who appears to value mystique and privacy, and that’s all there is to it. Except that isn’t all there is to it. It can’t be.

Several times, he took Seth’s card from his desk drawer, staring at it intently, memorizing the number. He was tempted to call, but didn’t. In a way it felt like that would be admitting defeat.

The day of their next meeting arrives and he’s relieved. Elated, even. He practically floats to the coffeehouse. Of course, he does hover some distance away, lurking, until he sees the familiar silhouette enter first; then he waits another five minutes so as to be tastefully late. 

          “Oh, good, you remembered!”          Izaya chirps, coming up behind him.  He starts ushering him toward the counter, arm thrown around his shoulder.         “I was worried you’d ghost me. You said you were going to spoil me this time, right?” 

The barista already looks slightly tense just at the sight of them. 

[fleshfruits]

“if we can find the time, i'll take you up on that!”

she makes no effort to conceal her delight. why should she? not long ago, it seemed he'd rather die than indulge her, especially in something as seemingly frivolous as a nice dinner. but even without the drastic price of their reconciliation, the resonance of the city casts its net across wide swathes of time and terrain; he would've been beckoned here regardless.

she begins twisting the diamond-haloed garnet ring on her right thumb.

“so while i was off being boring, i had an idea. perish the thought, i know. but the arms market is cornered by militarized weapons, and for anyone who needs more discretion, innovations are pretty much only coming out of intelligence agencies no one's exactly thrilled to be beholden to.”

[undeific]

He’s already halfway through his glass of champagne, pleased that it doesn’t seem in any way drugged or poisoned. The spirit of the city—wet and hot like a lover’s mouth—encourages him to top the glass off before he’s even finished; he thinks better of it at the last minute. On her turf, he should be a little more discerning. 

Especially since she’s started to talk about weapons. Apparently there’s more on her mind than luring Izaya to a bayou death. He listens, cogs turning, trying to figure out where exactly she’s going with this. 

          “Okay,”          he finally says. He’s got nothing. If it were as simple as wanting to deal weapons, she could talk to her idiot husband and his loser friends. Clearly she's aiming beyond just that, shrouding her point in all that noise about the system.           “So you want to… what, exactly? Change the shape of the arms race? I hate to say this, but I don’t know if I can help much with that.”

[xyumeni]

rei swats his hand away from her face, though there's no real effort behind it. too tired both mentally and physically to protest. and for a few moments, rei sits there in silence debating whether she should tell the truth about her dream or make something up just to satisfy him.

"...bound to a chair and shot point blank in the head." she opts to tell the truth in the end.

[undeific]

          “That’s pretty intense.”          He leans back, the heels of his palms planting into the mattress, propping him up. Eyes drift to the ceiling, as if her dream is projected there for him to view.          “Not a good way to go out. But at least it happens fast. Fear, then nothing.” 

He scrunches one eye shut, peering at her with the still-open one. He grins:          “Have you ever seen somebody die like that?”

[undeific]

He must’ve been bruised all over his body, but nothing in his demeanor suggested any pain whatsoever. He continued monologuing to himself for the benefit of all present.

-vol11, p61

[noisyhajimari]

"That's disgusting!" He scolds, point-blank. It's the kind of reaction that takes no time to think itself through.

Because if he did, it would go on to run the risk of proving the other's self-serving manic fantasies correct, which couldn't possibly turn out well.

And if he did, he might find that the romanticism of it -- his dedication to Celty manifesting physically, parasiting itself into his stomach, tearing him apart from within, closing his mortal life with a grand gesture of all-consuming love --------- Well. A good half of his spirit wanted to swoon and admit to that readily. Maybe more.

The worst part was that if anyone were to understand that level of blind, disgusting, dedicated romanticism, it would be Izaya. But if anyone were to bully him for it in a way that might actually bother him, it would be Izaya.

So he stuck to shutting it down and pouting about it. childlike. mean, in a different way.

"Obviously I'll die for her," because that part isn't even worth pretending to have contention about. "But not over this, and not for a long, looong time."

[undeific]

          “Let’s hope not.”

Izaya would like to claim neutrality—that he doesn’t care one way or the other what happens to Shinra; that his value is equal to everyone else’s, alive or dead—but the truth of the matter is that he hasn’t the slightest idea how he would react if Shinra really were to go out that way. And he’s perfectly content never to find out. Besides, in all likelihood Celty wouldn’t let it happen in the first place: she’s a sensible monster. 

As sensible as a monster can be, anyway. 

          “Have you thought about what it’s going to be like when you get old?”          (If he gets old: it’s always a matter of if when it comes to a life of criminal activity; they all know that.)          “As far as we can tell, she doesn’t age. But we do, you have. That’s going to present some challenges someday, don’t you think?”  

It’s a wonder that it hasn’t presented any challenges already. Celty has known Shinra all his life; she can remember the way he spoke before his voice deepened, what he looked like when he was a child. Normally that would give someone pause. At least, it would give a human someone pause. If they were decent.

Izaya often wonders about how it all works, what lies they have to tell themselves and each other for their relationship to flourish the way it does—and with Shinra as a captive audience on this train, he can ask all the questions he likes. 

Granted, that doesn’t mean any of them will get answered in earnest. Still, he can try.

[batoushoujo]

　　HE TALKS. AND TALKS. AND TALKS. Tem doesn't even know where to begin with all of this; is he really pulling the race card on her right now? If the snort she'd let out at that "open-minded" comment hadn't summed it up, the incredulous expression that settles onto her face as he approaches her and babbles on will surely get the point across that she's not buying any of this, no matter what color he tries to paint it in.

　　In her peripherals, she watches him trace along the leash as if this is a courting ritual of some sort, and when he asks about it directly, she releases her hands and lets it unwind and fall to the floor, the only thing remaining on her face a flat sort of skepticism.

　　“You know, the gender shit isn't all about sex. You're the one that brought it up in this situation. And if you think being a roundabout-know-it-all asshole about it is going to make me want to talk to you about it, I should probably just choke you to death with the damn thing and call it a day.”

　　Hands flexing to get out the stiffness from having trapped them for so long, she continues.　“It has nothing to do with your fucking nationality. It's you. As a person. You'll take any piece of information you can and use it to dig under a person's skin until there's nowhere left to go, and then keep going anyway. And as much fun as I have arguing with you, this isn't something I have the patience to deal with from my modern-day husband.”

[undeific]

She isn’t understanding him. Normally Izaya would take this opportunity to mock her relentlessly for missing the point, rubbing as much salt as possible into the wound, and then unleash another torrent of words on her, winding this way and that through a deluge of philosophy, history, religion, science, and so on until all hope of coming to any sort of understanding whatsoever is obliterated entirely. He foresees the futility of the exercise, dual frustration the only possible outcome, and decides for once that it isn’t worth it. 

Instead he tries to imagine what a ‘normal’ husband would do, say. But he struggles to abandon his real thoughts: unspoken, they fill him up, clogging and congesting his insides, volcanic. He can’t ignore them, even if he can’t say them; the attempted meditation on normalcy is so plainly farcical that he can’t stomach it for long. Izaya’s eyes don’t lose their clarity, but their typical sharpness is for a moment dulled; it seems almost as if he’s half-dissociated, gone somewhere far away. 

Then, all at once, he’s back, laughing the way he always does, a distancing sheen of polish between them. 

          “You’re funny.”          Coffin-nail words, dismissing everything.          “So you admit that I get under your skin?”

[undeific]

          “He’s not coming.”          Izaya plops down in the booth across from @wickdcreatures.          “He’s on a heroin bender in some trap house in the valley. Better luck next time. You need to stop relying on these fake ‘chance encounters’ with that guy—just text him. Anyway, did you get my message?”

The kid’s eyes are wide as dinner plates.          “How—how did you get in here?”           “I get where I need to go. You smell like sex. Where have you been?”           “Um.”           “Remember how you owe me?”           “Y… Yeah.”           “This is my first cash in. I just need you to get a message to Kim Minsu, okay?”           “...Okay… What is it?”

That’s hilarious. He leans back against the vinyl seat, grinning.          “I can’t believe you’re encouraging him. Is there an endgame here, or are you just taking advantage?”

[fleshfruits]

“you're right.”

blistering calm in her voice. it could be true, for all he knows. this isn't the same creature he left to its own devices those many years ago; it isn't even the girl whom he gleefully fed to her executioners, though it's taken great pains to look like her. it smiles like she always has, like it's just stumbled upon the most delectable secret.

“i almost forgot about you, like i forget about my momma sometimes.”

she makes only the slightest movement. the blade is sharpened so finely that if he's distracted enough, he might not feel it gliding through his skin.

“you ever get a little queasy when i say i'll always need you? 'cause you know better, right?”

[undeific]

She’s perfected the art of saying a lot while also saying absolutely nothing, usually his calling card. He doesn’t know whether to be flattered or vexed. He doesn’t bother lingering on either; that’s the trap, a maze of words to get lost in so you don’t notice the ground dropping out from under you.

He might be a dead man, he might not be. It’s thrilling to be on that precipice, not knowing which way it will go. The fear squirms around inside him, tickles his guts; it’s all he can do not to keel over laughing. He has enough sense to know not to move, at least. Then it would be over all too soon.

          “‘Know better?’ Know you’re full of shit, you mean?”

She hasn’t claimed to need him in ages, which might be the point she’s trying to make. At least it’s circling the drain of her point, if she really has one at all.

Apparently she did need him, though, because now at least she has fire in her eyes. A little motivation goes a long way. He thinks of the lives he traded to reignite her and then stops thinking about them, because who cares, life goes on. There’s always going to be a little boy getting shot in the back of the head somewhere.

[fiveteeth]

I  DON’T  CARE  WHAT  THAT  SAYS  ABOUT  YOU  AND  I’M  BORED  WITH  THIS  CONVERSATION.         he  doesn’t  say  it  out  loud,  but  he  wants  to.  jongwoo  sighs,  running  a  hand  over  his  face  and  down  his  chin,  his  forefinger  and  thumb  landing  on  his  own  adam's  apple.  a  conscious  reminder  not  to  lie  —  but  this  isn’t  a  lie.  he  isn’t  hiding  anything.  his  face  tells  it  all.

“  …  what  do  you  want  to  know?  ”       it’s  not  an  open  invitation.  he  knows  better  than  to  say  much  at  all,  if  anything.  it’s  been  long  enough  since  he  told  his  story  that  the  details  are  starting  to  get  a  little  fuzzy,  anyways.  now  is  not  the  time  to  perjure  himself,  especially  around  someone  who  claims  to  “know  things  professionally”.

oh  god,  he’s  an  information  broker,  isn’t  he?

“  and  can  you  move  away  from  the  ledge?  you  look  like  you  could  fall.  ”       should  he  push  him?

[undeific]

          “I could fall, yes,”          Izaya chirps, moving even closer to the building’s edge, teetering precariously as he gazes beyond the precipice, pavement-scrying.          “That’s the beauty of it.”

At any moment, any one of us could fall. He looks back at Jongwoo, smiling brightly, and then finally obliges by skipping a few steps backward. Now he only risks splitting his skull open on the concrete of the roof. 

          “Anyway, we’ve all heard your side of the story already, and for legal reasons you’re going to stick to it. No use asking those questions, right? It’ll only make you Hulk out,”          he goes on, looking at the sky now, the fast-moving clouds that, up here, seem close enough to touch.          “I wanted to ask about the boring stuff, actually. The job you had, your daily routine. You had a girlfriend, right? Jieun? I don’t suppose you two are still an item?”

He already knows the answer to that one—he had a brief correspondence with the girl via email a few weeks back—but he wants to feel Jongwoo out, see how he reacts to things, how easy he is to lie.

[recsongs]

[sleepytrain]

Yesterday Calling

Shibuya, Japan 2026

[undeific]

“Oh, right, that girl who was staring daggers at you. What did you do to her?” Mikage asked suspiciously, but Izaya shrugged the question off. “I didn’t do anything. I just lied and asked if she wanted to commit suicide together, then slipped her a drink with sleeping pills to knock her out.” “...” Her stare grew colder and colder, to which Izaya just laughed and waved his hand. “Oh, come on, Mikage. I didn’t do the kind of things you’re thinking of. But as the girls were falling asleep, they did claim they’d kill me. One of the two of them saw my name on the news and visited my hospital within the span of a single day to come kill me… Don’t you think that’s lovely?” “I wish she’d seen it through.” “How cruel.” “Don’t worry, I’d avenge you,” said Mikage, two clauses that were at odds with each other.

vol11, p62

[undeific]

everyone say happy birthday to izaya. or else