Knights and Knaves puzzles

Dazai   My interest in Saint Joanne and her so-called Church of Equalizers was piqued the very moment the first murmurings of this peculiar figure graced the pages of the English-speaking press — chiefly, of course, the internet. At first, I was inclined to dismiss the whole affair as yet another fabrication, one of the countless tall tales the common folk spun about the gifted, but I resolved to keep an eye on the situation just in case. And the more I observed, the less I liked what I saw. At the time Joanne's name first crossed my path, there were precisely 167 registered ability users in the United Kingdom. A mere six months later, that number had dwindled to 99. Naturally, my knowledge was limited to public records — I harbored no illusions that these figures reflected reality with any degree of accuracy — but even a cursory glance at such distressing statistics was enough to draw some rather troubling conclusions. Prudently, I kept these musings to myself. Alas, fortune was not so kind, for one fateful day, our resident genius, the incomparable Ranpo, decided to broach the subject of the Equalizers at an Agency meeting. Evidently, he too had taken an interest in their activities, scouring the press and connecting the dots just as I had. "Why do they call themselves the Equalizers?" one of the younger members inquired — either Tanizaki or Miyazawa; I confess, I wasn't paying enough attention to distinguish. "They peddle the rhetoric that the gifted are no worse than ordinary folk," Ranpo explained, "that they are, in essence, equals. And so, they offer the gifted a chance to ‘purify’ themselves." "But who decided that we are worse, to begin with? We are not worse at all, are we?" the boy protested. (From the mouths of babes shall come the truth. A classic case of a false premise — a staple of demagoguery.) "In short," Ranpo continued, "Joanne’s ideology posits that by relinquishing their abilities, the gifted would not only cease to pose a threat to society but also attain a semblance of normalcy — perhaps even happiness." "It’s obvious why ordinary people would be drawn to such a doctrine," Kunikida observed. "But what compels ability users to embrace it?" Fukuzawa, ever the sage, declared, "An ideology such as this would never lead astray a mind as steadfast as yours or mine, Kunikida-kun, but it may well unsettle the young and impressionable. From what I gather, the sect primarily recruits adolescents and young adults. Even the name of Joanne’s ability — Cursed Child — suggests that Joanne prefers to work with the young and insecure." (Just like you, you sanctimonious old man; just like Mori, just like me, just like everyone else in this wretched world... Not that I would ever say that out loud.) Kunikida shook his head doubtfully. "This woman preaches the eradication of abilities, yet she possesses one herself. There’s something absurd about that." Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have bothered interjecting, but this time, I simply couldn't resist. "And not just her, I suspect," I mused. "A movement like this must be able to defend itself. I would wager there are other ability users among them — not merely ordinary folk and those who’ve been ‘cleansed.’ The rhetoric of the Equalizers may center around humanity at large, but in reality, they likely have little to do with it. At its core, this is a war between people like us." "Yes," Fukuzawa agreed. "A battle of gods and monsters." Ranpo, ever the showman, delivered his grand conclusion: "As I see it, this isn’t true nullification of abilities — it’s some manner of hypnosis. But one way or another, these Equalizers pose a serious threat to all ability users." "You deduced this with your Super Deduction?" Kunikida asked, with the sort of reverence only the naive could muster. Ah, Kunikida, forever hopeless. "No, this was just regular deduction," Ranpo replied with a smug grin. "You see, England’s ability users are far better organized than ours. They are registered, governed by law, and overseen by a specialized institution known as the Witenagemot. A movement like the Equalizers cannot have gone unnoticed — surely someone, be it the government or another faction, would have intervened. And yet, they continue to operate unchallenged. No records of conflicts, no retaliations, nothing. Apart from the press, the world seems content to ignore them. The logical conclusion? Joanne has a means of making her adversaries look the other way. A simple bribe wouldn’t suffice — not at the highest levels of power—so I considered the possibility of hypnosis. "Now, one could argue that the Equalizers possess two distinct abilities — hypnosis and nullification. But, following Occam’s razor, why multiply entities unnecessarily? Hypnosis alone would be sufficient. After all, if one is utterly convinced that they have lost their ability, then for all intents and purposes, they have." Magnificent. A chilling thought crept into my mind: had Ranpo at last resigned himself to the truth that he was no ability user at all? Otherwise, why else would he suddenly deign to explain his reasoning in terms even the unenlightened could follow? Regardless, I had reached these same conclusions some time ago. "In the end, the difference is purely semantic," Fukuzawa remarked sensibly. "If hypnosis is powerful enough to convince a person beyond a shadow of a doubt that they have been stripped of their ability, then for all practical purposes, they have been. And hypnosis is far worse — it does not merely take one's power, it reshapes the very fabric of their mind." He was right. It was all utterly wretched. "Gentlemen, I believe you’re overstating the danger," I said with a lighthearted grin. "After all, we are safely in Japan, not England. This sect is no threat to us, and should we decide to meddle, we risk making an exceedingly powerful enemy." What I thought, however, was quite the opposite: we needed to act. And swiftly. In any war, there are only two true paths to victory. The first — seize the initiative from the outset and never relinquish it. The second — feign weakness, lull the enemy into complacency, and strike only when the moment is ripe. Either way, surprise is paramount. And the longer we waited, the more our opponent would learn about us. If Saint Joanne had any wits about her, she was, at this very moment, gathering every scrap of intelligence on ability users across the world, identifying potential threats. And once she realized that I — above all others — was someone to be wary of, our element of surprise would be lost. "...Though perhaps," I added with a theatrical sigh, "it wouldn’t be so bad if the Equalizers were to put an end to my wretched existence..." "Dazai, joking about suicide past the age of thirteen is appallingly tasteless." Ah, Kunikida, so reliably tedious. Chuuya had a similar attitude toward my gallows humor, though, naturally, his sentiments were conveyed in a far cruder dialect of street brawls and broken bottles. But what did any of them understand? If one cannot jest about death, what else remains to joke about? The world offers precious little in the way of mirth — most things are dull, or terrifying, or tragic, or wretched, or hideous... "And you, Kunikida-ku~n, were clearly born to be a particularly insufferable schoolteacher," I sang out in mock cheer. "You—!" We fell into our usual squabbling, and the previous topic was deftly swept aside — precisely as I had intended. I had a plan. But this was not the time to share it. Fortunately, I had my dear, wonderful Atsushi — an angel incarnate, a Saint George among dragons, a Peter with the keys to paradise. Loyal as a hound, he would bring me even a rose from the Beast’s castle, should I ask. And ask I did. I painted the situation in the grimmest of shades, hinted — far from subtly — that a fighter of his caliber might well succeed in putting an end to the Equalizers. I also requested that he keep this mission strictly confidential within the Agency. “Only within the Agency?” Atsushi asked after a thoughtful pause. Feigning mild perplexity, I replied in a tone of playful incredulity, as if the very notion amused me: “Where else? Surely, you’re not planning to run to the Mafia and pour your heart out to Mori, are you, Atsushi?” He looked flustered, then chuckled nervously. “No, definitely not Mori...” Of course, I knew exactly whom he intended to confide in. Atsushi and Akutagawa had grown rather close of late, and in this particular case, that suited my purposes splendidly. I wouldn’t have bothered asking Akutagawa for anything myself — my former protégé regarded me as though I were afflicted with leprosy, and whenever fate forced us into proximity, he would glare at me with such comically indignant fury that one could almost hear the gnashing of teeth. But one thing was certain: wherever Atsushi went, Akutagawa would follow, driven by that peculiar brand of obsessive concern he harbored for him. Both boys were formidable in battle. I had taken to calling them, in private jest, the "New Double Black" — not, of course, that they had yet attained the seamless synchrony of Chuuya and myself. They still needed time to grow accustomed to each other’s movements, their rhythm not yet honed to perfection. But even so, together, they made a force to be reckoned with. It was not outside the realm of possibility that they might, by some stroke of luck, eliminate the sect outright — a rather dull outcome, perhaps, but undeniably the most favorable one. Not that I was counting on it. No, I fully expected them to return empty-handed — and that is when things would become truly interesting. Why was I so certain they would return at all? Ah, but that was the simplest equation of all. What, realistically, could Joanne do to Atsushi and Akutagawa? Two possibilities: kill them or send them back, stripped of their abilities and thoroughly reconditioned. Naturally, she would recognize that two volatile young men arriving in England unbidden were unlikely to be acting on their own initiative. Someone had sent them — someone powerful. And to that someone, she would wish to send a message. Killing them? A fine choice, but a bit too pedestrian. Stripping them of their abilities, however — now that had a far more dramatic appeal. The perfect calling card: I have no idea who you are, but you sent me your best warriors, and they were nothing but playthings in my hands. Here, take them back. Sign here. And don’t come knocking again. If I were in her place, that’s precisely what I would have done. Now, it might seem absurd to sacrifice two such powerful pieces right at the outset. And you would be absolutely right. That is precisely why I did it — because no one would expect it. Atsushi and Akutagawa were a baited hook, but not some flimsy little lure easily dismissed. No, they were substantial enough to wound my fish, to ensure she took the threat seriously rather than brushing it aside as she might have done had I sent lesser pawns. I needed her attention. I needed her invested. And I knew that once she took the bait, she would send someone to follow the trail back to Japan. Faced with such serious opponents as Atsushi and Akutagawa, Saint Joanne would rightly decide that the person who sent them cannot be underestimated. She will send her strongest henchmen to find and eliminate him. Which meant, I would immediately understand what the balance of the chessboard is.   While the boys were in London, I maintained contact with Atsushi, though his reports were disappointingly dull. A few details about the sect, but nothing of great significance — getting close to Joanne herself proved as difficult as I had anticipated. Then, quite abruptly, the line went dead. And that was when I knew. The fish had taken the hook. I met them at Narita Airport myself, the very image of a doting mother hen — though, naturally, they had no inkling of my presence. I already knew their flight details; passenger lists may be confidential, but I made a habit of checking Atsushi’s emails and had found their return tickets — obscenely overpriced, clearly purchased in haste, and most likely not even by him. I observed their fellow passengers with keen interest. Roughly half the plane consisted of foreigners, but it didn’t take me long to pick out the ones trailing my boys. Four of them — one man, three women. A rather colorful group, though hardly discreet. Not that they needed to be; Atsushi and Akutagawa had returned from their English misadventure in such a wretched state that they wouldn’t have noticed their own shadows, let alone a team of pursuers walking two steps behind them. The English were watching Atsushi and Akutagawa. And I? I was watching the English. Everything was proceeding splendidly. I had planned to send the boys some subtle signal, lest their reckless instincts lead them charging straight to me — neither of them, bless their hearts, was particularly renowned for their strategic restraint. But, miracle of miracles, they went exactly where they needed to, without so much as a hint from me. And right on their heels, their pursuers followed. To Chuuya. The very next day, Yokohama’s more illicit corners of the internet saw a new query surface: a request for information on Chuuya Nakahara. Beautiful. Absolutely exquisite. There was, of course, the mild inconvenience of our dear, insufferably brilliant Ranpo. But, as far as I knew, he did not typically wade into such murky waters — something for which I was profoundly grateful, as he was perhaps the only man in the city with the wits to piece all of this together and deduce my involvement. Well — him, and perhaps Mori. That sly old spider, whom I loathed with every fiber of my being. He would have noticed Akutagawa’s absence, and this sudden interest in Chuuya would only deepen his unease. But Mori, I knew, would not act prematurely. He would watch, and he would wait. And waiting is often the wisest course of action. Had I rushed in and spoon-fed our English guests information on Chuuya, it would have looked suspicious — too convenient, too deliberate. A planted lead. So, I waited. I kept an eye on them from a distance — they had taken up residence in a hotel in the Minato Mirai 21 district — but I refrained from getting too close. There was no need. In time, they would learn about Chuuya from other sources — perhaps some of his less scrupulous Mafia colleagues, eager for a quick profit. And what would they learn? That Chuuya Nakahara was one of the highest-ranking figures in the Mafia. That he was one of the most powerful gifted in Japan — perhaps even the world. Perfect. The ideal man to perceive the Equalizers as a threat and dispatch his subordinates to England to deal with them, wouldn’t you say? I wasn’t concerned that they might learn too much and lose interest in whatever I had to offer. No, I had prepared something far more enticing. "Information," they called it. How quaint. The sum mentioned on the darknet was clearly not for trivial gossip — hardly a bounty for details on Chuuya’s fondness for vehicles with any number of wheels and speeds that go beyond the speedometer, his culinary preferences (steaks with teriyaki sauce, coffee only with half a cup of cream and some sweet syrups), his habit of boasting about his ability to hang upside down without losing his hat, or his dubious talent for singing Space Oddity in the shower. No, in such cases, it was always clear: this was a hunt. A few days later, I sent an anonymous message. Simple. Direct. I had information. There were already several similar messages in this topic, so I suggested switching to mail — naturally, indicating a newly created address unknown to anyone. They replied soon enough. In my next message, I introduced myself as Joushi Ikita — “the survivor of suicide,” a little jest I found quite delightful (you’ll forgive me my small indulgences, won’t you?) — and without much preamble, I suggested that I knew Chuuya’s habits well. Well enough, in fact, to tell them where to find him. And how to catch him off guard. They asked to meet in person. For some inexplicable reason, my pen pals had chosen a cat café as our meeting place. Perhaps such establishments were considered exotic by foreigners; well, at the very least, it was a welcome deviation from the insipid monotony of a bar. I had no way of knowing whether the English party, in the course of their research, had gleaned anything about the Agency and its operatives. Nevertheless, as a precaution, I deemed it wise not to parade my bandages — too distinctive a hallmark of Osamu Dazai’s appearance. And I intended, with all due diligence, to become someone entirely different. Thus, I opted for a high-collared sweater with sleeves long enough to obscure my wrists. Additionally, I procured a dapper scarf and — gritting my teeth — a hat no less dapper, in the very fashion of Chuuya. It is a cardinal rule of disguise, after all: if one must don a conspicuous accessory, let it be something wholly absent from one’s usual attire, thereby diverting all attention away from what truly matters. The cat café itself bore little difference from an ordinary one — an unremarkable arrangement of tables, the omnipresent aroma of coffee and confections — save for the feline accommodations lining the walls: towers, perches, and assorted climbing contraptions. And, of course, the cats themselves. Specimens of various breeds and hues lounged, prowled, or preened, some curling indolently atop chairs, others weaving between tables with the languid air of creatures that know they are adored. Fukuzawa would have been positively delighted. And Atsushi too — he adored cats nearly as much as our chief did. That simpleton even turned to admire every beckoning Maneki-neko gracing a shop window. But now was not the time to think about Atsushi. I spotted my English acquaintances the moment I entered. The ladies were nestled together on a single sofa, their six hands stroking and tormenting a wrinkled, bald sphynx — a wretched, wholly unviable breed that, bereft of human companionship, would surely perish at once. A young man sat slightly apart, his gaze immediately settling upon me with the weight and finality of a falling monolith. I approached and, switching to English, inquired, “I presume it is with you that I am meant to confer?” The response came in relay, a peculiar verbal relay: “Several of your colleagues...” “...attempted, for unknown reasons, to feed us...” “...false information.” Somewhat nonplussed, I remarked, “It is rather uncouth, don’t you think, to commence a conversation with an accusation, my charming ladies? And whoever it was that approached you, I assure you, they were not my colleagues.” At this, the ladies turned — quite unnecessarily — to their companion. He nodded, then declared with languid indifference, “Yes. He does not work for the Mafia.” Well, now. That was an unforeseen contingency. Were I Chuuya, my reaction would have been succinct: Fuck. Clearly, the persona and strategy I had so meticulously prepared would require immediate adjustments. A waiter approached. My interlocutors ordered matcha latte — an utterly predictable choice, the standard selection of all foreigners — while I opted for coffee. To buy myself time and determine the appropriate course for improvisation, I addressed the young man, “I take it you possess a supernatural ability?” With a sneer of supreme condescension, he responded, “What keen perception. Yes. It is called De Profundis — 'From the Depths.’” The ladies hastened to elucidate: “Our colleague Wilde has the ability to...” “...read thoughts...” “...and intentions.” “And so we warn you, Mister Ikita...” “...so as not to waste your time or ours...” “...that lying to us would be futile.” Their eerie tripartite manner of speaking — so clearly calculated to intimidate — struck me as a touch too theatrical and, consequently, slightly irritating. “What a delight it must be to wield such a useful talent,” I said, making a studied effort to sound amiable. “Oh, spare us. You, too, are no ordinary man,” Wilde declared, his tone lofty and unimpressed. He was not asking. He was stating it as though he saw through me entirely, as though my every word and action had been laid bare to him before I had even conceived of them. But I had encountered enough bluffing in my time to recognize it. And this — this was not an especially artful bluff. For one, I simply did not believe in thought-reading. Now, of course, I was well aware that the world harbored individuals with extraordinary abilities. But thought itself is an intricate, layered phenomenon, a ceaseless process occurring within the mind, much of it beyond even our own conscious perception. Were it possible to tune in to another’s mind like a radio station, most of what one heard would surely be indecipherable static, interspersed with the occasional coherent phrase. The surface thoughts, the deeper ones, and those lurking in the abyssal trenches of the subconscious — these did not align so neatly. Even a decade in therapy would scarcely suffice to unravel them. And, let us speak plainly — were this smug, pretentious boy truly capable of peering into the depths of my mind as though reading a book, he would hardly feel the need to announce it. He would not be sitting here, posturing. No, he would have known my plan the instant he laid eyes on me, and this conversation would not be taking place at all. At this very moment, I would be dodging bullets — or lying lifeless on the café floor among these delightful, unsuspecting creatures, irrevocably, irretrievably dead. So then, he was bluffing. And why would one pretend to read minds? The answer was evident: because one could not. And yet, Wilde was no fool — he would not make such claims without some foundation. Most likely, his ability was something more pedestrian, yet he adorned it with grandeur to unsettle his interlocutors, much as the sisters employed their eerie choral speech. Perhaps something akin to a lie detector? If so, splendid — one could hardly ask for a better opponent. Deception without outright falsehoods was, after all, something of a personal specialty. The most convincing lies are those that resemble truth — or contain a generous portion of it. Let us see how the “lie detector” fares against half-truths, misdirection, and the exquisite art of ambiguity. I offered a pleasant smile and said, “You are correct. I, too, have an ability.” And before they could inquire further, I added, “In time, perhaps I shall demonstrate it. But it is... not a combative one. Frankly, without a partner, I am of little use.” Here, I affected a slight embarrassment. Then, as though confessing a minor secret, I continued, “You see... I am something of a master of illusions. I can make people believe in things that do not exist. I deceive.” “Illusions are hardly a worthless ability,” Wilde observed, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “My ability is short-lived,” I sighed, as though disheartened. “I do not employ it often. I prefer to rely on intellect.” “Hmph. I see what you are,” he said at last, with his usual contemptuous boredom. Excellent. I could only hope he had envisioned something utterly ridiculous and feeble. As you can see, not a single direct falsehood. And yet, I daresay I had managed to conjure in the minds of my interlocutors a picture not entirely aligned with reality — though one that fit my intentions exquisitely. “If you’re not with the Mafia…” “...then how do you know…” “...Chuuya Nakahara?” the girls asked. “I worked for the Mafia for some time. Then I left.” “Why did you leave?” “Their goals, their methods — none of it suited me. A humble teacher’s salary, of course, can’t compare to what I made in the Mafia… I am, regrettably, not unfamiliar with financial struggles. If you were truthful about the reward, it would do wonders for my circumstances.” In this, at least, I was crystal clear — Fukuzawa paid his agents a pittance. Arguing with Kunikida over money had always been an amusing pastime; the poor pedant kept our meager finances with such meticulousness, you’d think it was his life’s purpose. “You’re a teacher?” “One must dabble in many trades, but I have always wished to consider myself, first and foremost, an educator. My other talents… do not inspire much pride.” “Aren’t you afraid that if you hand over Mr. Nakahara…” “...the Mafia might find out…” “...and take their revenge?” “I fear, rather, what will happen if he does not walk into the trap I have prepared for him. That, I suspect, would spell my end.” Ah, honesty — the most delightful indulgence! “The Port Mafia is a festering boil on this city’s body, crawling with people I find utterly insufferable. The kind who might spill your guts over something as trivial as an ill-timed glance. But of them all, there is only one I truly fear…” I was choosing my words with great care. “I believe you have already gathered that Nakahara is among the most dangerous men in the Mafia.” Fear Chuuya? Hardly. But a well-arranged sequence of facts could easily create the illusion of a logical conclusion. (“Na-ka-ha-ra” — it sounded oddly foreign, almost unfamiliar. To me, he was always just Chuuya, barely five feet tall even with the hat…) “So, you wish to eliminate Mr. Nakahara because you fear him,” Wilde concluded with an air of self-importance. His bluff-driven habit of never asking direct questions was quite convenient — it allowed me to provide equally roundabout answers. “To tell you the truth, I once worked with him, and he is the most insufferable man alive,” I confided. “He has done me more harm than anyone else. His voice, his appearance, his mannerisms, his habits… all of it infuriates me beyond words.” “So you are doing this…” “...for money…” “...and revenge?” “For fear, first and foremost — I wish to rid myself of a dangerous enemy. But if I can turn a profit in the process, that would be nothing short of splendid. Now then. If I have passed your test, ladies and gentlemen, I suggest we move on to business. I assume you have gathered sufficient information on Chuuya Nakahara. I have a more concrete proposal: I can lure him into a trap for you.” At each of my words, the girls glanced at Wilde. He nodded in assent, confirming my statements. The drinks arrived. I handed him his cup — our hands brushed briefly — and said, “I, too, enjoy green tea.” “No, you despise it,” Wilde corrected me coolly. “Are you testing whether I can see through deception even in trivial matters?” In truth, I had just confirmed something far more intriguing, but now was not the time to dwell on such details. Instead, I laughed. “You are remarkably perceptive, Wilde-san. But I hope you will forgive my little falsehood about tea — after all, in every other regard, I have yet to speak you a single untruth.” “That is correct,” Wilde mused. “Hm. Very well.” The girls relaxed. It seemed I had passed their scrutiny. The most difficult interview of my life — not that I had much experience with such matters, apart from my entrance exam to the Agency, but still. “I included a name in my letter, yet you have yet to introduce yourselves,” I noted. “My apologies, Mr. Ikita. My colleagues — Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë. And I am Oscar Wilde.” “Well, a pleasure to make your acquaintance…” ***   I must have gravely offended the universe, for misfortunes were raining down upon me in quick succession. Though what followed my encounter with our English guests was hardly a misfortune — more so an inevitability I had been actively avoiding. The pink elephant, whose specter I had so diligently chased from my thoughts — though, unsurprisingly, with little success. Except, of course, that in my case, it wasn’t an elephant. More like a white tiger. In short, I was finally forced to meet and speak with Atsushi. The boy had come straight to the Agency. When I spotted that silvery head through the window — shimmering like the down of a dandelion — my first instinct was to make a disgraceful escape through the back door. His visit was spectacularly ill-timed. I had assumed he would seek me out privately first. Now, the entire Agency would learn of his lost ability, and even the most oblivious Tanizaki would be able to connect the dots to our recent conversation about the Equalizers. A deeply unpleasant conversation with Fukuzawa awaited me. As did wary, perhaps even reproachful, glances from Ranpo, Kunikida, and the rest. Every so often — when the mask of Dazai-the-carefree-lazy-fool slipped and let something else seep through, like dough overflowing from a too-small pot — they remembered that Osamu Dazai was an outsider in their Agency, a cuckoo’s egg dropped into their warm nest of kindness and humanity. And each time, it took no small effort to make them forget. To stuff that unsightly truth back where it belonged. All I could hope for now was that my dear colleagues wouldn’t throw a wrench in my plans — or at least, that they wouldn’t have the time. Saturday, the so-called ‘day of reckoning,’ was fast approaching. Besides, I would, regrettably, require the assistance of some of them. Securing it would have been much easier when they were blissfully unaware of Atsushi’s plight — when the waters were still calm. But alas. It seemed I wouldn’t escape without a public flogging and some requisite repentance. So, I gathered what little courage I possessed and stayed. Stayed, and listened as Atsushi recounted his pitiful little tale — of sin, purification, and a bakery. As Akiko led him off for examination and her… unique brand of medical intervention. As he looked at everyone — everyone but me, with an unspoken plea in his eyes, as though I had donned some invisible cloak. Out of some peculiar sense of knightly honor, Atsushi never uttered a word about my involvement. He told the Agency that he had forgotten nearly everything, save for his desire to rid himself of his sinful ability. But his kindness did me no favors, for everyone else, regrettably, remembered our conversation about the Equalizers all too well. Their gazes all but burned into me. Finally, unable to bear it, I said, “Look, I already know I’m a bastard — you don’t need to glower at me. Yes, this was my doing, my fault. But I have reason to hope that Atsushi will recover in time, seeing as it’s merely hypnosis…” “Dazai…” Fukuzawa sighed. “Oh, Dazai. I hope you truly understand why what you did was wrong in more ways than one.” Right and wrong, ones and zeroes… I knew Fukuzawa was too intelligent to genuinely subscribe to such tiresome moral absolutism. But of course, he had an image to uphold — a good man, wise, compassionate, kind. Nothing like the deranged Dazai, who once again had played his dark little games. The world would be a far more pleasant place if people cared less about appearing righteous and more about actually thinking, wouldn’t you agree? No, I wouldn’t have been offended if they had failed to grasp my plan — it was quite intricate, and only Ranpo, I suspect, might have deciphered it (and, in his characteristic sentimentality, deemed it inhumane). What stung was that they hadn’t even tried to find out why I did what I did. They didn't want to look beyond their noses — and these people still called themselves detectives... “No, I don’t understand,” I answered honestly. Fukuzawa only sighed and rubbed his temples. There was no anger in his expression — only weariness, like that of a parent exhausted by a beloved but wayward child. I had often seen that look in his eyes, and to be perfectly frank, it never failed to irk me. He had no right to look at me that way — I was not his child, nor his student, nor his protégé. If one were to persist with such a metaphor, then I was Mori’s child, his masterpiece, though undoubtedly, in his own mind, a failure. But I preferred not to dwell on that — the analogy led to places far too dark and suffocating. “…Hate me if you will. Curse my name,” I continued. “But you have known me long enough, well enough, to recognize that my strategies always succeed. I do not err; if a plan has a flaw, then it is not my plan. And believe me, this is the best course of action available. I do not ask you to understand me just yet — only to trust me. Soon, you will see what I intended. For now, all I ask is that you do not stand in my way. I swear, no one from the Agency will come to harm… save, perhaps, myself. I cannot explain everything to you yet — my apologies — but if you believe in me, then do not interfere. Just — do not interfere. And one more thing…” I shut my eyes, then blurted out: “Kunikida, I need you to do a few things with your notebook. And Jun’ichirou, I desperately require your exquisite, marvelous, dazzling Light Snow. A single, small illusion — utterly trivial, and yet a matter of life and death… in particular, my own death. I will most likely need your help on Sunday, at the airport.” As I spoke, I saw how the tense gazes fixed upon me softened — only for them to harden again the moment I began making requests. “Uh… I’d like to help, but I don’t know… I…” Tanizaki hesitated. He respected me, was even flattered by my praise of his ability, yet was visibly reluctant to share Atsushi’s fate. “If anything happens to my brother,” Naomi said sweetly — without the faintest trace of a joke — “I will break your legs and shove them right up your ass.” Her words had the brisk chill of Chuuya’s presence; I felt, bizarrely, a touch heartened. “I promised, didn’t I? No one from the Agency will be harmed. Darling, you can come with us and see for yourself. If so much as a single hair falls from Jun’ichirou’s head, then you may shove whatever you please wherever you please.” I forced a brilliant, dazzling smile, a meager attempt to dispel the gathering tension. “Oh, I’ll be coming, rest assured,” she retorted with a defiant glint in her eye. “I’ll be watching, and—” Fukuzawa intervened. “No one is going anywhere without my permission. We will discuss our next steps as a team, and as for you, Dazai — I believe you should have a private word with Atsushi. Go take a walk.” Ah. How tactful of you, Fukuzawa. You might as well have said: Get lost, Dazai. No one wants you here. Not that I was particularly keen to linger beneath their accusing stares myself. That said, being alone with Atsushi was even less appealing — but, alas, no one cared what I wanted.   We walked along the embankment. The air was damp, the sky a swollen grey, the gulls shrieked piercingly overhead. The city itself seemed caught in the same feverish unease that gripped Atsushi — a tension just before the storm. My Atsushi, with his meek little smile, his gentle eyes that had never glimpsed the darkness within me — eyes the impossible color of lavender and sunlight. In those absurdly short trousers that left his ankles bare (Mori, connoisseur of fragile childlike beauty, would have called them delightfully, temptingly short). For a while, we walked in silence. Then Atsushi spoke. “You know how to fix this, don’t you? You always know what to do. You always save everyone.” I said nothing. “I don’t blame you,” he added uncertainly. “Oh?” I let out a mirthless chuckle. “For what, exactly, Atsushi?” “For… sending me to London. And for what happened there. For what they took from me — my ability.” I remained silent. “You knew what could happen. You knew what it meant. You deliberately sacrificed me. Tricked me. Used me and Ryuunosuke as bait, or something like that…” Still, I said nothing. “Do you truly believe my ability will ever return?” he asked, almost pleading. “I don’t know,” I replied evenly. Atsushi’s voice trembled. “I’m not asking for pity, but… do you really have no justification at all?” I stopped walking. Atsushi halted too, nearly colliding into my back. “What do you want me to say?” I asked sharply. “That I didn’t understand what I was doing? That I’m shocked, that I had no idea things would turn out this way? No. I knew exactly what would happen.” Atsushi bit his lip. He looked as though he might cry. “…If you blame me, then say it outright. I don’t deny my guilt. It’s always easier when there’s someone to blame. Yes, I bear responsibility for what happened to you, and I will not stoop to excuses,” I went on. “But tell me, Atsushi — if it wasn’t just you, if every single person in the world lost their abilities… who would you blame then? Who would bear that responsibility?” Atsushi said nothing. “Have you ever heard of the trolley problem?” He shook his head. Of course he hadn’t. Why had I even asked? “It’s a thought experiment. It presents a dilemma between inaction and deliberate cruelty in pursuit of a greater good. To summarize—” I rubbed my temple. “A runaway trolley speeds down a track. Ahead, many people stand in its path. Unless something is done, they will die. And the only way to stop it is to throw… say, two people under its wheels.” Atsushi furrowed his brow, confused — then, at last, understanding dawned. “Most people refuse to act in such a scenario. But isn’t it obvious what should be done? Two lives to save many?” I had no idea why I was telling him this. Each person had their own weakness — their own baited hook. For Akutagawa, it was power. For Atsushi, it was kindness. Not truth. No one ever wanted truth. Atsushi was silent for a long moment. “You know so many smart things,” he finally said, his voice shaking, “but sometimes, Dazai, you’re such a fool. I understand what you’re trying to say, but I would never throw you under the trolley. To me, you were always… I always admired you. You seemed so extraordinary, so brilliant, so clever, always knowing exactly what to do. But if you look closer… you’re not bad, no… just empty. You don’t need anyone. Not even yourself.” Why was I even listening to this? It wasn’t my fault Atsushi had latched onto me. I never asked to be his mentor. “…Ryuunosuke hates you,” he went on. “But I can’t. And I truly hope that one day, someone will see you for what you are… and still love you anyway. Though honestly, I have no idea why anyone would.” Strangely enough, he still hadn’t cried. His dry, unwavering eyes held the sharp certainty of someone who had just, at last, truly seen the hideous, hollow thing standing before him — which, by an unpleasant coincidence, turned out to be me. The certainty of someone who had measured this thing with unsparing precision, found it utterly worthless, and scraped it from his heart like dirt clinging to the hem of his childish, too-short trousers. And all I could think to say was: “…Do you want to hit me?” That question injected an unnecessary touch of melodrama into what was already an unbearably awkward, exceedingly tedious, utterly pointless conversation. And yet I asked it — why? Because, quite suddenly, a scene from The Jungle Book came to mind. I can hardly count that book among my favorites, but, like so much of what I read in early childhood, it imprinted itself on my memory with remarkable clarity. In that particular scene, Bagheera strikes Mowgli for some transgression — I no longer recall which — and Mowgli, without protest, accepts the punishment. Immediately after, he leaps onto Bagheera’s back, and all is well between them once more. "Would it change anything?" Atsushi asked dully. I did not answer. He lingered beside me for a moment before resolutely turning on his heel and striding back toward the Agency’s office. I watched him go until his figure dwindled to a mere speck, until my eyes ached from the effort of focusing on that vanishing point. First Fukuzawa with his fatherly concern, and now this. I had, of course, foreseen it all, and yet I still felt as if someone had spat in my face. It must be said — I rarely experience emotions of such force. And yet, in a way, I was almost… glad to hear those words from Atsushi. His former devotion to me bordered on a pathological addiction. No — "glad" is not quite the word. Rather, I had always known this moment would come sooner or later. Atsushi, Atsushi… Do you think you have lost a beloved teacher? That your idol has crumbled into dust? But in truth, you have lost nothing — for you never had anything to begin with. I am a poor mentor, a poor companion, a poor man. My students turn into lunatics, my so-called friends perish. The rose-colored glasses have simply fallen from your eyes, Atsushi. You believe that because I picked you up off the street, you gained friends and a place to belong, but that is an illusion. Time will change them, just as it will change you — everything will rot, turn to dust, become mere phantoms. Some will grow indifferent to you, others will despise you, and still others will be taken by death. The indifferent tongue of time will lap away your dreams and your hopes, your youth and your health, your ability to think clearly, your capacity for wonder, all the joyful moments you have lived and even the memory of them — and in the end, it will erase you as well. You have nothing, Atsushi. You never did. None of us do. All that we believe we possess is illusion, mirage, smoke and mirrors. Everything is borrowed; nothing is true, nothing is certain. Every flower is destined to wither, every apple to rot; even the most glorious summer must burn itself out and yield to winter’s frozen breath, and in the end, even the sun itself will die. The sooner you understand this, the better. Am I empty? Of course. We all are. And within us, all around us — there is only emptiness. A deafening, black emptiness.   ***   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."