Durarara!!, Vol. 1 (novel)

by Ryohgo Narita

  In fact, Izaya’s argument had plenty of holes in it, and the women knew they could argue back if they wanted. But their minds were ruled not by suspicion, but by terror—that no matter how they argued back, words would have no effect on this creature with them.

  “But…that’s…that’s just what you think!” one of them boldly exclaimed, but Izaya’s smile only devoured her words.

  “Exactly. I don’t know for sure. I just think that there’s no afterlife. If it turns out that there is, hey, lucky me. That’s as much as I care about this.”

  He laughed mechanically and continued, his voice even brighter than before.

  “But you two are different. You only half believe in an afterlife. Does your religious sect promote the act of suicide and tell you that dying is a good response to career or romantic failure? If that’s the case, I’m fine with it—I might even admit it’s admirable of you. But if not, you should shut your damn mouths.”

  He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head as if seeking agreement, then leisurely uttered the finishing blow.

  “You shouldn’t speak of the afterlife when you only half believe in it. That’s slander to the afterlife. It’s an insult to those people who were driven to death by the evil intent of others when they didn’t really want to die.”

  It was only a few seconds. But to the two women, it felt much longer.

  In that brief, eternal moment, Izaya shut his eyes again—and when they opened, he was back to that original reassuring grin.

  The air surrounding him completely different from just moments ago, Izaya changed the topic to something else, to the surprise of the paralyzed women.

  “Ha-ha-ha, so anyway… When I was asking about your plans after death, I was referring to your money.”

  “…What?”

  “I do hate for things to go to waste. Now, they’re pretty strict about insurance claims these days, so that’s ruled out, but you could go and borrow all the money you can, then give it to me before you die, right? Your deaths might be in vain, but at least your money won’t be. Plus, there’s a lot of value in your bodies and identities. I know where to go to make deals like that.”

  Unlike his terrifying smile from earlier, Izaya’s current smile was warm and human. The things he was saying were faithfully, recognizably human in their greed. The women were about to speak, but once again, he cut them off.

  “Question one: Why am I sitting in the spot closest to the door?”

  Izaya was practically blocking the door in his current seat. The women were suddenly filled with a completely different kind of fear. If his previous smile was that of a devil, this one was concentrated human malice…

  “Question two: What are these wheeled suitcases under the table for?”

  The women had not noticed, until he pointed it out, that on the other side of the table from them were two large suitcases. They looked like the kind one would pack before a long overseas trip.

  “Hint one: The suitcases are empty.”

  Both women were struck by an awful foreboding. They had never met before this event, but the similarity of their reactions to Izaya made them kindred spirits.

  “Hint two: the suitcases are just your size.”

  An unbearable nausea swept over them. It stemmed from disgust at the man with them, but the unexpected onset of dizziness was not related.

  “?!”

  “What…the…?”

  By the time they noticed something was wrong with them, it was too late to even stand.

  “Question three: If the two of you work together, you should be able to get past me to safety, so why can’t you? Hint: I handed you your cups.”

  The world spun, spun, spun. Izaya’s voice seized what remained of their fading wits. His soft, gentle coos and chirps ushered them into darkness like a lullaby to a baby.

  “It’s love. I don’t feel any love in your deaths. And that’s wrong. You must love death. You don’t have enough respect for nothingness. And I’m not going to die with you after a sorry answer like that.”

  One of the women summoned the last of her strength to glare at Izaya.

  “You’ll never…get away with this! I’m going…to kill you…!”

  Izaya looked happier than ever at this threat. He stroked her cheek tenderly.

  “Good, very good. You can survive solely on that drive to hate. Pretty awesome, aren’t I? I just saved your life. You owe me one.”

  Once they were both completely unconscious, Izaya put a hand to his temple and thought it over.

  “Oh, wait. I’m not really into the idea of having a grudge hanging over my head. Maybe I should just go ahead and kill you anyway.”

  Just before the clock struck midnight and changed the date, two shadows lurked in a corner of South Ikebukuro Park. One of them was Izaya Orihara—the other was an actual shadow.

  “So you just want to sit them on a park bench and leave?” Celty typed into her electronic notepad—a PDA with a tiny keyboard.

  Izaya read the message and cheerfully confirmed. He grinned and continued counting the stack of bills. “Normally I’d drag them to a loan shark and leech some money out of them, but I’m tired of all that.”

  “Tired? You?”

  He’d hired Celty to help him transport two human beings. When she stepped into the karaoke box lobby, helmet still on, the employee simply pointed toward Izaya’s room. On the other side of the door, Izaya was stuffing two unconscious women into suitcases. Before she could even type a pithy remark, he grinned and asked for help.

  They’d hoisted their cargo all the way to the park, but Celty still didn’t know anything about what had happened.

  “I’m tired of it, and it’s not a very efficient way of getting rich. The more it goes on, the more the police and mobsters will start looking into my activities. And this is only a hobby for me, not a job. Oh, thanks for helping on short notice. The professionals I usually ask were all busy. Usually I’d get a car to take them back to their parents, but with your motorcycle this is probably the best we can do.”

  Anyone who would take on this kind of job was probably not the good kind of “professional.” Celty was not exactly pleased to be considered one of them, but she was used to it by now.

  At least it ended quickly. It wasn’t one of the jobs with a bad aftertaste. But not a good one, either.

  “Is this going to involve the police? I don’t want to get dragged into something.”

  “Nothing you need to worry about. They’re not bodies or anything. You just helped me escort two drunk women to a park bench, nothing more.”

  “Inside suitcases?”

  Izaya ignored her jab, looking over the helmeted biker with great curiosity. Then he asked, “Hey, courier. Do you believe in an afterlife?”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Just humor me. Consider it part of the contract.”

  “You’ll find out when you die,” Celty typed irritatedly into her PDA, then added, “How about you?”

  “I don’t. So to be perfectly honest, I’m afraid of death. I want to live as long as I can.”

  “And yet you drug women for a hobby and sell information for a living?”

  Izaya chuckled shyly. If that expression was the only thing to go on, he’d never be mistaken for someone fully immersed in the criminal underworld from head to toe.

  “Hey, once you’re dead, you’re gone for good. It’s a waste of your life if you don’t enjoy it, right?”

  Celty typed, “You make me sick,” into her PDA but deleted it before Izaya could see.

  Izaya Orihara was an ordinary human being.

  He did not wield extraordinary violence to evil ends and neither was he the kind of cold-minded killer who ended human life without compunction.

  It was simply that he possessed both the greedy desire of a normal human being and the personal momentum to violate taboos if they stood in his way at the same time. He was not some charismatic mad villain, he just lived true to his interests. Be
cause of that relentless pursuit of his “hobbies,” he’d found a way to make a good living by selling information he picked up to organized crime or the police for cash.

  But his name was known far and wide, and Izaya understood that. The kanji in his name were not typically read as “Izaya”—the name was a combination of Isaiah, the prophet in the Bible, and “one who approaches.” He did not live a holy life fitting of the holy book, but on the other hand, he did exhibit an extraordinary capability to face new and different phenomena. That skill brought him to the life he now led.

  He treasured his life as any normal person would, understood his limits, and spared no expense for his own safety. Thus, he had survived in the criminal underworld and was able to spend his days pursuing his interests.

  Izaya left the rest of the chore to Celty, having fully enjoyed his first visit to Ikebukuro in weeks, and went home happy.

  What had the women he met today looked like? How did they dress? Were they pretty, were they ugly, were they stylish, were they awkward? What did they sound like? Why did they want to die? Did they, in fact, even want to die? Izaya forgot all of these things.

  Izaya Orihara was an absolute atheist. He did not believe in souls or the afterlife—which is why he wanted to know people. He found interest in others at the drop of a hat and trampled them just as quickly. When Izaya no longer needed to know a person, his lack of interest was absolute.

  Barely ten yards from the scene, he had even forgotten the names of the two suicidal women. Unnecessary knowledge served no purpose to an information broker.

  Two things were on his mind now.

  One was the identity of the mute courier who always wore a helmet. The Reaper-like thing with the black scythe, riding a silent motorcycle.

  The other was the group called the Dollars that had been at the center of rumors in Ikebukuro lately.

  “I can’t wait. I can’t wait. I can’t wait. Despite being an information agent, there’s still so much of this town that I know nothing about being born and then disappearing. This is why I can’t help but live here where all the people are! I love people! I just love human beings! I love ’em! Which is why people should love me back.”

  Izaya pulled his PDA out of his breast pocket. He turned it on, opened up the address book, and scrolled until he found the entry he wanted.

  The name of the person was grandiose and ostentatious.

  “Mikado Ryuugamine,” the boy he had just met earlier that day.

  Chapter 6: Yagiri Pharmaceuticals, Upper Management

  Somewhere between Ikebukuro and Shinjuku, in a location outside of the pleasure district of Mejiro, there was a quiet laboratory building. It was a three-story complex surrounded by fences and trees, the grounds quite spacious for Tokyo real estate, even when the long distance to the nearest train station was factored in.

  This was the testing and research facility for Yagiri Pharmaceuticals, one of the elite corporations in that industry in the Kanto region around Tokyo. But the “elite” status was now a relic of the past, and the company’s share was steadily shrinking with little sign of improvement.

  Around the time their stock began slipping, an American business came with a merger offer. It was a conglomerate named Nebula, with a century of history behind it, active in shipping, publishing, and even biotechnology. Thanks to the bedrock of their business acumen, rumors abounded of unspoken understandings between Nebula and various politicians, but everything was kept secure through legal power.

  For a merger, Nebula offered quite favorable terms that promised very little in the way of layoffs and restructuring, but some within the company—particularly the members of the Yagiri family itself, including the president—balked at certain conditions.

  The most resistent member of the company was the young lab chief of the Sixth Development Lab, aka Lab Six, Namie Yagiri. She was only twenty-five years old and was the niece of the company president.

  Her fast-track career course was not simply nepotism from her family’s control of the company; her intellect and skill were exceptional. However, her blood was indeed a factor in her current position—not in terms of rank, but assignment.

  It was the subject of that very lab that the Yagiri family secretly suspected was the driving force behind Nebula’s merger offer.

  Lab Six was not studying a new pharmaceutical, to be precise. On paper, it was developing new immune system substances for clinical trials…but what it actually contained was not of this world.

  Twenty years ago, her uncle returned from an overseas trip with a taxidermy head that was modeled to look like a human’s. It was as beautiful and still as if it were still alive, just sleeping. The pretty girl’s head was tasteless, to be sure, but it was oddly tranquil, not barbaric. It seemed to anyone who looked at it like the head was an entire living thing all its own.

  Though Namie did not know this at age five, the item had been smuggled into the country and would certainly have been seized at customs if declared properly.

  Whatever the reason that her uncle had procured the head, it was treated like a Yagiri family heirloom. When he had time, he would lock himself in his study, gazing upon the head, even talking to it.

  As a child, Namie visited that house often to spend the night with her cousin, and she found her uncle to be creepy, but that feeling faded over time as she grew accustomed to him. The only problem she had was that her younger brother, Seiji Yagiri, was even more attached to the head than her uncle was.

  The first time Seiji saw the head was when he was ten. Namie snuck him into the study when their uncle wasn’t around to show him the odd trophy. Even now, she terribly regretted this decision.

  It was from that point on that Seiji slowly came undone.

  He asked to go to Uncle’s house more and more often. Whenever he could slip past Uncle’s guard, he would stare at the head. With every passing year, Seiji’s infatuation with the head grew stronger, until three years ago—the moment that Namie earned a job with her uncle’s pharmaceutical company—he said to her, “I’m in love with a girl.”

  The girl her brother loved didn’t have a name. Or a body below her neck.

  The emotion that stole into Namie’s heart at that moment wasn’t the pitying sympathy for her brother’s unrequited sexual fetish—it was the dark red and rusted flame of sheer jealousy.

  Namie’s parents were originally supposed to be next in line to inherit Yagiri Pharmaceuticals. But when Seiji was born, a large business deal went south because of a mistake on their part, and they lost face and authority within the company. After that, the love of their marriage went cold, and with it, the love of their daughter and son.

  If anything, it was their uncle who offered more care and attention to Namie and Seiji. Their parents had no comment when they went to Uncle’s house. It wasn’t out of any implicit trust of him. They just didn’t seem to care what happened.

  On the other hand, their uncle’s intention was to raise them as pawns of the family’s interests. He cared for them as he would for his employees, not with the love reserved for one’s family.

  Eventually, Namie sought in her brother the kind of close family kinship that she was lacking elsewhere. That grew over time to eclipse the standard bounds of familial love into a twisted one-sided mockery of romance.

  That was why Seiji’s professed love for the head was so displeasing to her. Rather than returning the love she showed to him, Seiji chose to love a head, something that would never reciprocate his feelings. She knew that feeling jealousy toward a head was crazy, but she decided that she would sneak in and destroy it anyway.

  But when she took the head out of the glass case, intending to discard it, the sensation on her fingers told her a terrible truth.

  That soft skin was not the result of taxidermy. It had the warmth of any other person.

  The head was still alive.

  The years passed after that, and Namie convinced her uncle to let her study the head at the company lab. He inf
ormed her that this head belonged to a fairy known as a dullahan.

  What a ridiculous story. Since when was a severed head a fairy rather than the usual winged human-bug things? But no matter the form it took, the important thing was that they had in their hands a being that transcended the normal concepts of life and death. This was a chance they couldn’t let slip through their fingers.

  Namie put the living head through a number of experiments. Half of her drive came solely from the jealousy surrounding her brother. She treated the thing as a “test subject” without remorse or reflection. She assumed that as long as the head was kept safely in the lab, Seiji would be unable to approach it.

  The first problem was that Nebula contacted them as soon as she started the research. Despite the fact that the research team was extremely limited and tightly guarded, the American company’s demands—complete control over the lab and its work—made it clear that they knew about the head.

  Just when Namie was most paranoid toward the other members of the staff, fearing a traitor in their midst, the second incident happened. Her keycard, which she took home with her out of mistrust toward everyone else, was stolen.

  The incident happened that night. Someone infiltrated the lab, used a stun baton on the three security guards, and took the head out of the building and nothing else.

  What a colossal failure, Namie thought. Everything’s over. But then she had an epiphany. She knew of exactly one person who was aware of the head’s presence, desired it, and could steal the keycard from her…

  But at almost the exact same time, she got a call coming from the apartment of the thief.

  “Sis, I think I might have killed someone. What should I do?”

  This cry for help came the night before Seiji’s first day of high school. A girl who’d been stalking him had broken into his apartment and seen the head. He crushed her skull against the wall.

  Namie did not feel terror at the fact that her brother had committed murder or anger that he had stolen the head—it was sheer joy she felt.