Chuuya

Dazai was a fucking genius, sure, but he had two major problems.

First, his brain sometimes short-circuited in favor of his personal brand of insanity rather than logic. And those little demons in his head? They were well-fed, fattened up over the years. Honestly, anyone in his place would’ve developed the same. The moment I saw him outside the Tate Gallery, I knew shit was about to go sideways. Not because he looked especially fucked up — Dazai could win an Oscar for Best Poker Face with that indifferent little smirk of his — but because he stopped messing with me.

I’d expected him to lose his damn mind laughing when he saw me in these girly tank tops and my hair tied up in a bun. He should’ve been cracking all his usual dumbass jokes, we should’ve been at each other’s throats immediately. But instead, all he said was, "As long as you’re happy with it." Didn’t even make a single jab about my height. "Graceful physique" — what the actual fuck was that supposed to mean? I knew then: if Dazai had stopped being an asshole, shit was really bad. Probably why I didn’t tell him to fuck off and unload three days’ worth of pent-up rage on him.

His second big problem? He thought he was a genius — so everyone else was a fucking idiot. Which, news flash, just because the first part is true doesn’t mean the second part is. Sometimes, like in this case, it got downright hilarious: he himself had told me how insanely smart that Joanne woman was, but somehow it never occurred to him that if she was like him, she’d act like him. That she didn’t need magic trinkets, some bullshit invincibility, or any of the other schizoid nonsense he was cooking up.

“Tell me this. On the plane and at Heathrow, to trick those girls and Wilde, you used an illusion without actually having an illusionist ability. But before that, back in Japan, when I was out cold — how the hell did you pull it off? Did your snowflake kid help you?”

“Yes. His name’s Tanizaki. He misdirected everyone in the airport who might’ve paid attention to what was happening. How’d you guess?”

“I just know you have a guy like that in the Agency.”

Okay, and also, I’d had three whole days — not just for drinking and shopping, but for thinking. Trying to figure out how Dazai had pulled that stunt.

“...If you’re pretending to be someone with an illusion ability, it just makes sense to borrow a guy who actually has one. That’s what I’m getting at. Maybe Joanne’s Cursed Child is just like your imaginary Mr. Ikita with his illusions. Maybe it’s not her at all, but someone else pulling the strings. That’s why your ability didn’t work on her. She’s got her own Tanizaki.”

I leaned forward.

“...Think about the ritual. A bunch of people touch the victim at the same time, right? And it’s all dark, with those hooded robes — if some outsider managed to sneak a glance, they wouldn’t be able to tell who was actually doing what. What if the nullifying ability isn’t hers, but one of her little Ku Klux Klan buddies?”

Dazai stared at me like I’d just started speaking Latin.

“Chuuya, are you… sick? Did the hat suck the intelligence right out of you? How the hell are you suddenly saying smart things?”

“Why don’t you just say ‘thank you,’ you prick? Would it kill you?”

Dazai had a whole wardrobe of asshole smirks. Right now, he was modeling the ‘Wow, you’re a fucking idiot’ collection.

“Sorry, Chuuya, but of course that thought already crossed my mind — and I ruled it out. Look. This person would have to be in Joanne’s inner Circle long enough, so that excludes any newcomers — neither Jane-Shame-and-Toad-Austen, nor that guy with the imaginary girlfriend, nor me — though I’m sure that one opens up a whole world of schizophrenic speculation. And it’s definitely not the Brontë sisters.”

I let a dramatic pause hang in the air before saying,

“I think it’s that smug little shit Wilde.”

Honestly? I was kinda proud of myself for putting that together. Wilde fit the profile — he’d been hanging around Joanne forever, maybe even from the very beginning. And wasn’t it possible his ability to see lies was just another side of a power to manipulate memories? To hypnotize?

But Dazai waved off my brilliant deduction like I was a fucking fly.

“No, definitely not. Anyone but him. I’ll explain later. So, that leaves only Joanne herself — which means your theory, as appealing as it is, is wrong.”

Dazai’s habit of answering in the spirit of “I’m right, you’re wrong, and I can’t be bothered to explain why” pissed me off to no end. But arguing was pointless because, unfortunately, he actually always turned out to be right.

And still, I had the nagging feeling we were missing something. Was there really no one else at that ceremony…?

“…Besides,” Dazai added, “I’ve had the chance to familiarize myself with Joanne’s views. We’ve talked quite a bit. She’s a devoted socialist, very much into all that equality and justice rhetoric… I don’t know how much you care about political ideologies, but the point is, she genuinely believes in universal fairness. And she absolutely loathes people with abilities. Abilities are, in a way, the essence of who we are — something distilled from within us. So, it’s only logical that someone like her would have the power to strip away the very thing that makes people different…”

Abilities are our essence…? Weird thought. Then again, this is Dazai we’re talking about — his thoughts were always weird. And honestly, why the hell not?

“…For now, our best bet is to dig up every scrap of information on Joanne we can find. Maybe you’ll come across something that explains why my ability doesn’t work on her.”

“Me? What, and you’re allergic to using the internet now? You know, there’s this neat little invention called a phone. Crazy stuff, really. They say you can actually send a message with a meeting place instead of stuffing goddamn paper notes into pockets and chasing each other across the city…”

“Are you done?” he sighed. “As you might have guessed, I didn’t bring my phone, and buying a new one hasn’t exactly been a priority. I will, though. You should get a new number too, just in case. We’ll text, but delete every message right after you read it… And besides, not all information can be found online. You have more freedom to move around than I do. I can only leave Avalon early in the morning or late at night, when the kids are asleep. And even that is risky.”

“Then at least show me where this place of yours is,” I said. “Maybe they were just waiting for you to slip out, and now they’ve figured out you’re not who you’re pretending to be. You go back, and boom — game over.”

“Since when do you care so much about my well-being?”

“Oh, come on. You know damn well since when.”

Always. I’d always cared. Ever since we were ten, and that bastard Mori started carving into Dazai’s head with his scalpel. Not literally… though honestly, maybe literally would’ve been better.

Dazai, of course, knew that perfectly well. His smirk turned just a little forced — he was pissed. Any second now, he’d say something snide.

“Well then, Chuuya,” he said mockingly, “escort me home like the gentleman you are. No need for a kiss on the doorstep, though.”

I could’ve told him exactly where to shove that bullshit, but instead, I let out something that vaguely resembled a laugh.

A little later, once we’d bought and sorted everything that needed sorting, I actually walked him all the way to this so-called Avalon.

It was in Whitechapel — same rotten, Ripper-haunted part of town — right next door to the Brontë sisters’ apartment. Shady place. Not old or dirty, exactly, but something about it felt sterile and lifeless, like a hospital.

I saw — or rather, felt through my ability — Dazai slip in through a back entrance. No one was standing guard. He made his way up to the second floor. No unusual movement inside, nothing that screamed ‘trap.’

Satisfied that he wasn’t about to get jumped, I was just about to leave — I had the Victoria and Albert Museum on my list today, plus plenty of other fun shit — when I realized something.

Someone was inside. Right behind the window I was currently hanging next to.

It was a girl. I hadn’t noticed her before because she’d been sitting so still I’d mistaken her for some piece of furniture.

Slowly — like a mouse hypnotized by a snake — I turned to face the window.

She was staring right at me.

Chestnut hair, freckles — well, I’ll be damned. My old acquaintance, Anne Brontë.

Any second now, she was gonna scream…

But instead, she cracked the window open and asked politely:

“Are you a boy or a girl?.. Oh, I’m sorry… That’s probably rude to ask.”

“Nah, it’s cool,” I said. “Take your pick, sweetheart. Whatever works for you.”

She doesn’t recognize me?.. Okay, I did a decent job blending in with this Tumblr-girl look, but not recognizing me while looking straight at my face? Then again, what the hell am I thinking — she doesn’t even remember herself.

I realized she wasn’t seeing that my feet weren’t touching the ground. To her, I was just some guy standing by the window. Not a floating terrorist.

Phew.

Anne smiled shyly at my response, then furrowed her thin brows, like she was trying to remember something.

“I feel like I know you. Have we met before? It’s this strange feeling… Don’t laugh, but… it’s like we used to be friends.”

“Nah, don’t think so,” I smirked. “But hey, it’s never too late to start.”

Friends, huh. Cute. My burns from her “friendly” electric shocks still ached from time to time. Funny how, out of all the shit rattling around in that broken brain of hers, it’s some weird fondness for me that stuck. Back when she still had her wits about her, she and her sisters looked about ready to strangle me with their bare hands.

She pushed the window open a little wider and offered:

“Do you want to come in?”

Figuring this situation couldn’t get much worse anyway, I decided to be honest.

“I’d rather not have anyone in this place seeing me.”

“I understand,” Anne nodded, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “This is the art room. We don’t have an art teacher now, so no one ever comes here. I hide out here when I want to be alone.”

Fuck it. I pulled myself up and climbed in, settling on the wide windowsill.

“So you actually like drawing, even though no one’s forcing you to?” I asked.

“I love it! Do you want to see my sketches?”

She flitted away, returned with a sketchbook, and plopped down next to me. I flipped through the pages. Well, that explained whose books on art I’d seen in their apartment.

Most of the sketches were black and white, a clear attempt at Beardsley, but without the style, without the vision. If I said it straight, she’d get upset. And really, who was I to talk? It’s not like I’d drawn anything myself since I was small enough to walk under tables. (If Dazai were here, he’d probably joke that, given my height, that wasn’t so long ago. But actually, it was. Way longer than I’d like.)

Sometimes I thought maybe I could be good at it. But talent doesn’t just show up out of nowhere, right? No magic wand that goes whoosh and suddenly you’re an artist. So better keep my mouth shut.

“You like Art Nouveau? Same here,” I said casually. As expected, she lit up. “And all that… fairy tale stuff, yeah?” Her sketches had a lot of monsters in them.

“Yes. But, you know… they’re not just fairy tales.” She lowered her voice like she was telling me a secret. “There are all kinds of beasts in this world… People who can do magic, or turn into animals, or fly…”

“Uh… You ever think that’s just some tabloid bullshit?”

I didn’t like the way she said “beasts”.

“No, they’re real. They definitely exist…” Anne glanced around, as if afraid someone might hear, then whispered, “There are some of them here. In this orphanage. Former monsters. No one talks about it openly, but everybody knows. And they’re not even ashamed of what they used to be. They even have a secret club. It’s called ‘Theta Sigma.’”

Well, fuck me. What a fancy-ass name. Sounded more like some posh Cambridge fraternity than a bunch of lost kids with memories like Swiss cheese. If I were running a club like that, I’d come up with something way cooler.

“So what are you even doing in a dump like this?” I asked. “Why aren’t you home?”

“My sisters left… I hope they’ll be back in a few days, because I don’t like anyone here,” she said with a sigh. “They have a very important job, you see. Very secret. They travel a lot. I’m so proud of them… But sometimes it’s hard. We had to send Noctie to a shelter because there was no one to take care of her…”

I almost snarked back, asking why she couldn’t take care of the damn cat herself — guess the ceremony scrambled her brain so bad half of it got left behind somewhere — but I held back. It was… kinda sad.

Though, yeah, I got why they had to let the cat go. Anne used to travel with her sisters, running errands for Joanne. Not that she remembered that anymore. That’s why she couldn’t take care of Noctie.

And then it hit me.

“So… your sisters’ important job,” I asked. “Does it have anything to do with these… uh, superpowered people?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “It’s kind of a family thing. We’ve always done it. And right now… they’re looking for someone. Someone especially dangerous.”

Fantastic. And that “especially dangerous” someone was currently sitting ten inches away from their baby sister, having a nice little chat.

I remembered how her sisters once said they wanted Anne to have normal childhood memories. They probably meant something different. Not family monster hunts, but birthdays with friends, movie nights, school trips, camping. Or joining those, uh… Scouts? Or was that just an American thing? Whatever. Just a regular childhood. Parents taking you to amusement parks, buying you toys, balloons, ice cream. (Not that I’d know firsthand — I didn’t have that either, but that’s how it looked in stories.)

But I guess it didn’t quite work out. A brain isn’t a magician. It can’t create something from nothing. It just shuffles the cards it already has.