This Is the Part Where You Surrender

Game over, game over.

The table is turning a violent red, but not in the good way. It's making the moon—good, old, fat, glorious moon—look red, too. That's not the way it's supposed to be. Why is the game over?

A crash behind me, heavy feet on the floor, coming closer. Poor Insidious Izaya. Poor moon. Why is the game over?

Burning my apartment doesn't feel good today. In fact, it feels like Shizuo-chan grabbing my arm. Quite roughly, too. Oh wait, it is Shizuo-chan grabbing my arm. Why is Shizuo-chan grabbing my arm? Why am I suddenly upside down? And most importantly, why is the game over already?

I want to play; I need people to play for me!

Outside. Hot. Hotter than inside. There is no fresh air, only something that stings like a thousand needles or cracked glass. Shizuo-chan isn't running. He's smoking. So that's why it hurts. It's his fault. That's why it hurts.

Game over, game over. Stupid Shizuo-chan screwed up again.

That night the clouds above Ikebukuro, Tokyo hung lower than usual. And not just the clouds, but the sky itself seemed closer too, as though it wanted to mock Shizuo with looming nearer yet not ever near enough to touch. This, however, meant nothing to him as he was already agitated enough without the help from outside forces.

Now, an observant citizen of Ikebukuro or anyone else living in the vicinity who did not spend his life under a rock (and the members of that party were higher than one would expect) might have noticed that the tendency of finding Shizuo Heiwajima relaxed or in some way not-irritated was rather little, non-existent even. Thus it was not particularly surprising to see him stomping angrily through the streets that night, yelling at everybody unfortunate enough to cross his way. The cause for his petulance, a local information broker called Izaya Orihara, was not very shocking, either. Still, there was something notably unnerving about him: he was carrying exactly that Izaya Orihara over his shoulder. Why, where to and how it had to come to this unlikely development was only for Shizuo to know.

And he did know, although he began to wish he didn't and had never made the decision to do what he was currently doing. That stupid fucker Izaya came across light, but he actually weighed a ton! Not that Shizuo wasn't strong or anything, it just made the entire procedure a lot more tiresome than he had anticipated. Especially since he'd had to jump out of a burning three story building with this additional weight in tow.

Really, he should have just let him die there. Pretty much all his problems would have incinerated along with Izaya, not to mention the pure joy and satisfaction it would have been to know the guy dead for sure. So why had he chosen the opposite? He had two very sensible, justified reasons.

I can't see Ikebukuro from here. I can't see anything. The windows' curtains are drawn.

Everything is clean now. Clean and neat and perfect and white. White. How bland. How depressing. Pitiful Injured Izaya. How can he be expected to get better in such an inappropriate environment? Where have you taken me, Shizuo-chan?

Shizuo-chan isn't here. Nobody is here. I am not here.

This room is vacant. What a complete waste of space. However, I can't help it. I can't stay at a place where you can't even see Ikebukuro.

First of all, death by being trapped inside a burning house would have been too easy. And Izaya had set the fire himself, too. What fun would that have been? No, if Izaya ever got killed, which had seemed quite improbable until this incident, Shizuo wanted it to be his own hands to do job. He didn't trust anyone else but him to succeed.

Secondly, the fact that Izaya—THE Izaya, one of the most dangerous and unpleasant things in the world aside from soap operas, violence and treachery—had had the temerity to try to commit suicide was simply outrageous. How dare he chicken out? How dare he? The sheer nerve of it drove Shizuo mad.

Not bothering to ring the doorbell or knock, he kicked in the door of Shinra's and Celty's apartment. On the couch in the living room the doctor and his Irish fairy wife lay in a very compromising position.

"Why hello, Shizuo," Shinra greeted cheerfully. He didn't even pretend to be ashamed, unlike Celty, who managed to faint from embarrassment.

Shizuo ground his teeth, hard.

I am so excited! People are gathering. All around me! Maybe the game isn't over yet, after all!

My blood is in an uproar, boiling its way onto the asphalt. What an intoxicating sensation. Can you see, everyone, how wonderfully Izaya is bleeding for you?

But what is this? I am moving? No, someone is moving me?

There, I see it closing in, so uncomfortably close: the city. It's grey, like smoke. It's colourless, like … like Shizuo-chan.

I'm not bleeding anymore. The crowd dies away. Why are you always interfering, Shizuo? Why won't you let me finish the game?

Things just kept going downhill, really.

In the period of less than 24 hours he had saved Izaya from his new self-destructive habits two times already, run in on Celty and Shinra having sex, and spent about 3,000 ¥ for cigarettes. Also, he was lacking several hours of sleep. But he couldn't return home yet. If he did, Izaya was going to run off to find a new way to kill himself, and that Shizuo could not allow. So he stayed to watch over him.

Of course, someone else could have done that—Celty, for instance—yet, for whatever reason, he felt that it had to be him, that anybody but him would have failed.

I'm in that room again, that room where you can't see anything. It's still clean, still white, still bleak. But there's a difference, as well.

Shizuo-chan is here, sitting on the edge of my bed, and he's smoking again. Seriously, how inconsiderate. I am a patient, after all: my body is heavy. I can't feel my limbs. Maybe Shizuo-chan has dismembered me in my sleep.

"You've gone mad," Shizuo-chan tells me, and shifts in his position, causing the mattress to groan as it grinds against the slatted frame.

Game over, game over, it echoes in my mind. Yes, game over. But why? Shizuo, that's why. Shizuo's always why.

"I am honoured, my dear Shizuo-chan," Izaya said, smiling that creeper smile of his that never quite seemed to reach farther than the corners of his mouth; his eyes always remained the same conspirational, razor sharp hazelnut. "Although I must admit I am astounded to see you here. Without throwing anything at me, I mean."

It seemed almost as though nothing had ever happened. But there was something forced in the way he talked, Shizuo was sure of that. The tradition of trying to punch the other's lights out went way back to their middle school days. Getting to know him better had therefore been unavoidable.

So what had happened? What could have possibly triggered Izaya Orihara wanting to get rid of himself? Hadn't he always clung to life like the disgusting, little flea he was?

"You piss me off, you know that," Shizuo muttered, the cigarette in between his teeth muffling the words. It had been the last in the box.

With one very swift motion he stood and chucked his chair through one of the windows.

I have adjusted to staying at Shinra's flat. A few familiar elements here and there make it feel like home, nearly. For example, Shizuo-chan who's sitting at my bed and sweetening the dull daily routine with his antics and temper tantrums. Those would be even more amusing if he didn't have himself under such good control, though. It makes me wonder what's gotten into him.

Ah, if only I hadn't lost. Then I wouldn't be here in this unfavourable position. I long to see my old chess board, to let my fingertips glide over the surface until I arrive at one of my pawns, to ponder whether it is worthy or not, and then to push it over the edge into the void. As it turned out none of them were actually worthy. It still disappoints me.

"You know, I had to burn them, Shizuo-chan." He made it sound as though it was a matter of fact, something perfectly natural. Shizuo wasn't surprised. "They all betrayed me. I lost because of them."

Shizuo regarded the madman at the other end of the bed, still unimpressed. Izaya's reasons had never made any sense so far.

He chuckled, his voice deeper than usual. There was a strange new edge to it that made him sound like a starving carnivore. The air in the room cracked under its pressure. "But I wouldn't expect you to comprehend that," he said.

Then why are you telling me? Shizuo thought, bored. Maniacs were all the same: changing in any shape or form was beyond them.

This isn't getting me anywhere. I need. I yearn. I can't stop. It's not enough, this is just not enough. The Need, the Need, it's killing me.

I am in Ikebukuro, I want to play!

"That's right," Shizuo finally settled on saying when it became apparent that Izaya was expecting a response. "You lost. Deal with it."

Izaya didn't look very satisfied with that. "Do you even know what you're saying?"

"What, you think I don't? Well, let me tell you one thing." Shizuo's eyes narrowed considerably; they both knew he was getting mad. "You're a nutcase. And not one of the good kind. Whenever something bad is happening around here, you're always involved in it somehow. You say you love humans—what bullshit, seriously!—but at the same time you use them like you'd use tokens. I say it was about damn time you lost at your own sick game."

"If my games are sick, then what are you, Shizuo-chan? Aren't you quite the phoney yourself? After all, you claim to hate violence, but just one look at me and you turn into a rampaging monster." Izaya was well acquainted with the art of twisting words and using them to benefit himself, Shizuo knew that since forever. Still, this knowledge only made it hurt more. One would think it was the other way around.

I know what I've done. And I must say I enjoy the consequences with great relish. Shizuo-chan is towering above me, his shadow adding nicely to the "serious" atmosphere. He glares, his hands switch in between clenching and unclenching. I'm just waiting for him to snap, that'll be my chance.

"You little shit know nothing about me!" So predictable and so useful, these words are. "Why can't you accept defeat?"

Shizuo-chan reaches back for a blow. The wall crumbles with a loud, crashing noise as his fist collides with it. I am already at the door.

"Thanks for your help." A little wave, a quick blown kiss, then I make my escape.

At last, Ikebukuro, Izaya is free at last.

In hindsight, it had been clear that Izaya had been leading him into a trap. It would have to be expected that he still had been plotting something to get out. Ikebukuro had lain right under his nose the whole time. It was like chaining a hungry dog in front of a slaughterhouse; eventually he was going to break loose.

The only thing Shizuo could do now was run after him and find him before he managed to execute his suicide. Or that there wouldn't be too much collateral damage, at least.

This is what you get for being a traitor.

The city has lost its colourlessness. I have painted it in the colour of despair. This is just what you deserve, Ikebukuro. You have abandoned me.

Somewhere distant, a roar. I assume it's Shizuo and imagine him scream my name while he searches every street and every alley. For me.

I flick open my cell and type one last message. Pressing the "send" button has a comforting, nostalgic sort of feel to it. And as the phone drowns in the flames I find myself craving to see his face.

I am human, too, sometimes.

Hey Shizuo-chan, wouldn't it be interesting if you were the only one to survive?

Game over, game over.