***

Ordinarily, the sight of little, dainty, adorable Chuuya hurling obscenities at me, screeching like a car alarm, filled me with a kind of fond amusement. Sometimes — if he managed to land a particularly cutting remark — it provoked irritation.

Today… I wasn’t sure what I felt. Nothing? Or, perhaps, far too much? I was wrung out, hollowed. I had no desire to bicker with him — Fukuzawa and Atsushi had already presumed to play the role of my conscience and deliver their sermons, and I had no patience for a third.

And yet, I had a task. I needed to push Chuuya to the brink, to make him lose control entirely. He suspected no trap — after all, I had arranged this meeting a week ago, long before he learned of the Englishmen’s interest in him, and besides, he still trusted me, even now. But he was always, always unconsciously aware of the mass, volume, and density of every object in his vicinity, and for the Brontë sisters to get close unnoticed, that awareness had to be dulled...

So I tossed out a few lackluster insults — something about walking upside down, about a distillery... Chuuya, of course, didn’t smell only of alcohol. His presence engulfed me in a kaleidoscope of scents — wine, yes, but also smoky and sweet cologne, gasoline, chocolate, some unidentifiable food, tobacco (he had recently developed a taste for some peculiar Indonesian cigarettes…). Chuuya was a specimen of floral engineering cultivated by Kouyou Ozaki, though he had sprung up from the barren soil of wretched street culture. (And Mori had, from time to time, pruned his leaves in his own fashion, though — thank God — he had begun too late to truly reshape the plant.) He was a strange blend of vulgarity and an almost inexplicable charisma, a roughness tempered by an undeniable grace.

Chuuya loved many things — often absurdly contradictory things, most of them expensive, loud, gaudy, and frivolous. Whenever he came close (I would have happily forgotten all our accursed chance encounters in bars — Lupin had long been off my list for a variety of reasons, but alas, Yokohama had no shortage of drinking establishments), he invaded my space, unapologetic, overwhelming, carrying with him the excessive, too-alive bouquet of his existence. It was irritating. As if any of it mattered — the price of liquor, the taste of food, the brand of car — these fleeting, ridiculous pleasures.

For someone so small and slight, he contained far too much — scorching fury, rare but devastating sincerity, shameless vanity, an equally shameless joy in simply being alive. And that, too, irritated me.

If I am to confess the full extent of my internal conflict — I had wondered, from an age so young it was almost childish, whether I was in love with him. It was a complex, nebulous feeling, one whose very existence I doubted, yet one that was undoubtedly mutual (for all my alleged emotional callousness, I was not entirely blind). And yet it was wholly, hopelessly impossible. Chuuya and I were as incompatible as two people could be, and any longing for possession — for one to take root within the other — could lead to nothing good. Even if we truly penetrated one another’s being — and I speak not of the crude mechanics of intercourse — it would change nothing.

But I digress.

Our fated meeting under the red ribbon unfolded most conveniently. Chuuya, too, was in no mood for verbal sparring — he simply skipped ahead to the part where he beat me senseless.

"Have you ever taken anything in your life seriously?!" he shouted, face contorted with fury.

For some reason, I thought of The Jungle Book again. Chuuya had never hesitated to strike me, nor to tell me exactly what he thought of me, punctuated with a spectacular array of profanities. And that was good. If he was to play the role of my conscience, he had better commit to it. Osamu Dazai’s conscience must have nerves of steel, a venomous tongue, and fists like iron weights.

When it was over, I leaned against a tree, waiting for the spinning spots in my vision to fade, then straightened, spat out blood, and followed after three chestnut-haired girls.

To be honest, I would have preferred to collapse right there under the tree, just as Chuuya had, but I had an appointment with Saint Joanne.

And I already knew what she would say — and what she would offer.

***

Saint Joanne turned out to be a gaunt blonde of indeterminate middle age, her face long and sharp — oh, but I knew that face well. It had graced more than a few articles about the cult known as the Equalizers.

"Good evening, Mr. Ikita," she addressed me from the screen.

"Good evening, madam."

"First of all, allow me to thank you for your work. I trust you found the payment satisfactory?"

"The sum was, without a doubt, substantial. I am very pleased that everything went as planned."

Our charming little "lie detector" — Wilde — was present for the exchange, which meant I once again had to resort to my usual evasions. I was beginning to take a certain perverse delight in this game.

"Tell me, would you be interested in earning a bit more?"

"And what precisely is on offer? Both in terms of compensation and… expected exertion?"

"You'll have all the details soon enough, and rest assured, the payment will be generous," Joanne promised with a smile.

I decided it was time to introduce some variety into my portrayal of the greedy, dim-witted scoundrel and leaned in conspiratorially.

"Money is all well and good," I murmured, "but it is not my sole concern. You see… certain people have learned of my involvement in this affair — people who were never meant to know."

Ah, the sweet, familiar ring of those pulpy, melodramatic phrases straight out of a second-rate crime thriller — nothing primes a listener's imagination quite like a cliché.

"The Mafia?"

"Indeed. Certain… individuals within the Mafia are now aware." (Akutagawa, for instance. And Chuuya, whom I so obligingly sold off for thirty pieces of silver.) "And some other people — no less dangerous." (A statement of absolute truth. The Agency's detectives were at least as perilous as the Mafia, if not more so.) "To speak plainly, I would value nothing more highly than the removal of those who now pose a threat to me…"

Here, I employed one of my favorite tricks — steering her attention toward a supposed hidden motive… which, naturally, was nothing of the kind. Money was a fine incentive on its own, but had my invented persona been driven solely by greed, he would have been painfully one-dimensional. And people, I had found, liked to believe they were glimpsing a deeper layer.

"I believe," Joanne said magnanimously, "that in time, I could arrange for your protection. And the elimination of anyone you so desire. And I will pay you the same amount as before."

I had no doubt that she was perfectly capable of making good on such an offer; with her gift for hypnosis, the banks of the world were, in essence, hers for the taking.

"But first," she continued, "I need you to complete a task for me. My subordinates have shared some… intriguing information about your ability. And it has given me an idea. Tell me, how long does it last?"

"It varies wildly," I replied. "Depends on many factors: the strength of the target, the duration of the interaction, the complexity of the case overall. What exactly are you asking of me?"

"The man in question — this Mr. Nakahara — has been a particular thorn in my side. Initially, I had planned to simply remove him. Kill him," she clarified, as though that required explanation.

Perhaps she had cultivated the habit of intimidation to such an extent that she no longer noticed when she employed it. I had already gathered from her underlings that fear was the favored currency of her organization. Almost like the good old Port Mafia. Nostalgic. Home, sweet home.

"I would very much like to see him with my own eyes," she went on, "but I had thought it impossible. We are, after all, separated by continents, and I cannot risk leaving England at the moment."

"Could he not be… brought to you?" I asked, my voice the picture of innocence.

"Exactly! At first, I dismissed the notion as impractical — a ten-hour flight, falsified documents, all quite the logistical nightmare. But then you appeared with your illusions…"

"You mean to say," I chuckled, "that you wish me to smuggle him across the border?"

"Trite, almost comical, yet that is indeed my intent. I want you to cloud the eyes of customs officers, airport personnel, passengers — everyone who might question an unexpected traveler. Can you do this?"

"I am fairly certain that I can. Let’s discuss the specifics."

"You will receive the same payment as before. Is that sufficient?"

"And… other forms of assistance?" I suggested.

"Yes, of course," Joanne said, a shade impatient now. "I will aid you however I can in your struggle against these… enemies of yours. The fewer dangerous individuals wielding supernatural abilities, the better. Within reason, of course — should your requests not entail excessive risk to us."

Her careful phrasing made it clear that she was giving serious consideration to my claims of 'enemies.' As though I had any genuine stake in the squabbles of my former Mafia colleagues… with one notable exception. But I had taken sufficient precautions against Mori, I believed.

"Splendid!" I exclaimed with deliberately excessive enthusiasm. "And tell me, why are you so eager to lay eyes on Mr. Nakahara?"

"Oh, not just to see him. Because of him — more precisely, his people — I lost several valuable subordinates. My entire organization was nearly imperiled…"

I offered a silent round of applause to Atsushi and Akutagawa.

"Organization?" I repeated, feigning ignorance. After all, my alias, Mr. Ikita, was not yet meant to be acquainted with the Equalizers.

Joanne's gaze — cold as pebbles washed by the sea — fixed on me, unblinking, assessing.

"I suppose I will have to explain sooner or later," she said. "Why not now? But first, let me ask you: how do you feel about your ability? Do you take pride in it? Are you ashamed of it?"

A peculiar question, at first glance, but I had anticipated it. I answered truthfully:

"I neither take pride in it nor feel shame. It simply is. Does the sun warm itself in its own light, or burn?"

Joanne frowned, slightly disoriented, and glanced aside — at Wilde, most likely expecting some signal should I be lying. But I knew there was nothing for him to detect.

"An unexpected answer," she admitted. "I rarely encounter people like you."

"Unprincipled people?" I inquired.

"Do you consider yourself unprincipled? I recall Oscar mentioning that you left the Mafia because you disliked the work."

What I disliked was her questioning. But I had expected the conversation to veer in this direction. It was necessary to expose a few of my vulnerabilities — so that she would see me as a potential recruit, as one of her future victims. I opted for the most effective method of deception: the stark, ugly truth.

"In the Mafia, I did things that still haunt my dreams."

"Do you regret them?"

"I don’t know. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. At times, I think all I do is lie — to everyone, including myself."

"How fascinating. You intrigue me, Mr. Ikita. I wonder what drives you, what you believe in… what truly goes on in that head of yours."

"I doubt there’s much in there worth peering into," I said dryly. "What kind of person am I? A dead one, madam."

It surprised and vaguely unsettled me how easily these words left my mouth — and how Wilde found no trace of falsehood in them.

"Very interesting," Joanne mused. "I had assumed our collaboration would be limited to this little task… but it seems your outlook may make us allies for a longer venture. Would it be fair to say that you dislike yourself? Answer honestly."

Lying would have been difficult, what with Wilde still present, so I grudgingly answered:

"Yes. I do."

Joanne did not entirely conceal her smile — perhaps she had no intention of doing so.

"Well then," she concluded, "I believe we shall get along quite well. Along the way, my subordinates will brief you on the goals and methods of the organization I lead. We call ourselves the Church of the Equalizers."