Chapter 137 Viewing Experience (Part 1): When Those Past Events Are Bringed to the Screen
*Sizzle*
Accompanied by a sound like a circuit being connected, a ceiling light suddenly turned on in the previously dark and enclosed studio—not very bright, but at least providing some illumination sufficient for seeing.
This room, which by no means appears spacious to the naked eye, gives one a sense of disorientation when one is inside it, as if the concept of space has been distorted, and everything becomes illusory and hazy.
Only the screen in front of them was so real that, after the initial surprise, rejection, wariness and adaptation, all eyes of the newcomers were forced to focus on this point, no matter how unwilling they were.
To say that it was "the masses" is not an accurate description.
Because they didn't arrange to come here together.
The studio is divided into several sections by invisible spatial lines, and the audience members sitting here come from different timelines and different worldlines.
"What is this thing?"
He wore a dark green rider's uniform on his upper body, paired with dark-colored casual pants, and his short, slightly wavy orange-ochre hair outlined an extremely unrestrained and carefree arc.
Nakahara Chuuya was fifteen years old at the time, and was the young and vigorous "King of Sheep".
"Oh, how would I know?"
Leaning listlessly against the back of a soft armchair, a black coat draped over his exceptionally narrow and slender shoulders, the fifteen-year-old Dazai Osamu spoke in a weak voice.
"How about we go and cause a ruckus? Now is the perfect time for the dog to go out and exercise. Go on, go!"
Dazai Osamu raised his hand, but even the flicking of his wrist seemed listless, as if he were just casually ordering his dog to cause a ruckus and drive away the enemy so that he could do nothing in peace.
"You bastard..."
Chuuya Nakahara gritted his teeth, imagining a hundred different scenarios of kicking this guy hard, sending him flying against the wall and sliding to the ground. But in the end, he took a deep breath and forced himself to hold back.
It wasn't that they didn't want to beat this guy up, but he couldn't leave his seat or use his powers—the anomalies of this space far exceeded their imagination.
“We’re still investigating the rumors about [Araba-to], don’t slack off here,”
Chuuya Nakahara kicked the invisible wall of air hard, as if venting his frustration on it. "Think of a way to get us out of here."
"I can't do it. I'm not some muscle-bound idiot."
Dazai Osamu tilted his head to the side, like a dying fish swept away by a wave, even his breathing seemed extremely reluctant.
"Ugh, damn it, why do I have to sit with you to watch a movie...!"
Chuuya Nakahara: "Huh? How did you know we'd watch a movie?"
“It’s not just us,” Dazai Osamu sighed, gesturing for him to look back. “There are even more special spectators here.”
"What on earth is the person who orchestrated this all about...?"
Chuuya Nakahara used the armrest for leverage to turn around, looking past the back of the chair and behind him.
He and Dazai Osamu sat in the front row of the studio, while most of the people behind them were strangers with varying expressions—of course, not all of them were complete strangers.
For example, he knew Mori Ougai, the port mafia leader who had arranged for him and Dazai Osamu to investigate the previous generation's revival and the Araha-ba-zu incident.
There are also people who look exactly like me but are older, and who seem like a future version of Chuuya Nakahara... There are two of them?!
At fifteen years old, Nakahara Chuuya's pupils dilated in shock.
Those sitting in the back naturally noticed the boy peeking over.
"Oh my, it's Chuuya, who's fifteen years old."
Dazai Osamu, dressed as a leader, sat further back and smiled as he spoke to Nakahara Chuuya beside him.
"You look so young, you've become a completely different type of being from you."
"Oh really? Did you notice him looking at you like you're some kind of jerk?"
As the highest-ranking officer who always stands by the leader Dazai's side, the dark red shirt and black suit are almost always Chuuya's attire, which also gives him a sharp and cold demeanor.
However, appearances and true feelings can never be confused. For example, Nakahara Chuuya, who seems to have the highest power under the leader, hates the leader beside him so much that he wants to kill him with his own hands, yet he is more nervous than anyone else about protecting this guy's life at all times.
"And don't think you can just tease me all you want." Chuuya Nakahara sneered. "Do you think I didn't notice you secretly glancing at that guy with the bronze hair to your side? Who's that?"
Dazai Osamu, who had become the leader of the port mafia, suddenly fell silent and did not answer Nakahara Chuuya's question.
Instead, the other party heard the noise and turned around.
“My name is Oda Sakunosuke,” he introduced himself, giving a polite nod to the top executive. “Hello, Mr. Chuuya.”
"..." After a moment of stunned silence, Chuuya Nakahara narrowed his eyes, his tone extremely dangerous, "You know me?"
But he received no answer, because Oda Sakunosuke's gaze fell on Dazai, the leader beside the other party. He looked at him with some confusion for a moment, then looked back at Dazai, the executive sitting next to him.
Just now, he noticed that there was an even younger Dazai at the very front.
“Three Dazai…” Oda Sakunosuke couldn’t help but mutter, “That’s amazing, there are so many Dazai.”
"...Is that all? And it's not three, it's four, and I'm sitting at the very back wearing a sand-colored trench coat, probably the oldest one."
Eighteen-year-old Dazai Osamu showed a somewhat dissatisfied expression when he heard Oda Sakunosuke's words.
"But what's the point of having so many of me? To play mahjong? It's not as good as us sitting together in a bar drinking! Right, Ango?"
When he finished speaking, he turned to Ango Sakaguchi, who was sitting on his other side—currently a dedicated intelligence agent for the Port Mafia, and one of the three who often sat in bars with him and Oda Sakunosuke.
Even if you ask me, "[Right?]", I can't give a useful answer.
Ango Sakaguchi slowly pushed up his glasses. "This sudden change of scenery, coupled with the fact that it can affect your information, has completely exceeded the scope of supernatural abilities."
"I hope the boss doesn't report us as missing persons," Oda Sakunosuke said with a hint of regret. "We were clearly holding our wine glasses, yet they didn't come along..."
Ango Sakaguchi froze for a moment, and when he spoke again, even his complaints were delivered with an unusually incredulous and out-of-control tone.
"Is that the point? Look at the back row, our organization's leader, Mori, is sitting there too! And he looks several years older!"
“Indeed,” Dazai Osamu yawned, “not only has he become an old man, but his hairline has also receded.”
Oda Sakunosuke obediently turned his head to take a closer look, then turned back, his tone very serious.
"As someone who works at the bottom, I've never actually seen what the leader looks like. Hmm, I guess being a leader must be really tough."
Mori Ougai, who was sitting in the back, listened silently for a long time before finally unable to hold back and making a sound.
"Hey, hey, no personal attacks allowed..."
—The president, who was on the right, also heard these words. He kept his hands tucked into the sleeves of his kimono and closed his eyes in silence.
Fortunately, he didn't have such troubles.
"Fortunately, the company president, who is also an older man, doesn't have such troubles!"
Sitting on a single sofa, Edogawa Ranpo swung his legs and said those words in a loud and cheerful voice.
The president and Mori Ōgai both fell silent: "…………"
Ranpo, you...!
Sitting next to him was Osamu Dazai, a 22-year-old member of the Armed Detective Agency, who burst into laughter without any restraint.
"Phew... What a farce this is."
Forced to sit here, Ayatsuji Yukito's voice, uttered with a sigh, was low and languid, revealing a coldness and impatience. "Watching goldfish blow bubbles is more interesting; at least they can't attack my hearing."
"Ayatsuji-sensei, are you so anxious because you can't get a cigarette?" Mizuki Tsujimura tapped her hand next to him. "Oh right, smoking is prohibited during the movie."
Despite holding his pipe in his hand, Ayatsuji Yukito stubbornly refused to come along: "…………"
"Tsk."
Those seated at the innermost part of the room were even more silent.
"It's quite lively over there, Boss." Pushkin peeked out, "Ah, aren't those two the ones I saw in the photo..."
"Shh, Pushkin," Ivan said, stopping him from nearly revealing the battle plan.
"Let's not discuss these things here."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Pushkin quickly sat back down.
When he secretly glanced at the BOSS he had just mentioned—Fyodor D.—to see if he was angry, he found that the other party remained silent, only staring at the huge screen at the front.
There was no trace of ease or curiosity in his expression.
"Why does the boss look so serious..."
Pushkin couldn't help but whisper to Ivan, "And that magician next to him, dressed like a clown, doesn't seem too happy either."
Ivan wasn't going to pay any attention to his gossip.
Just then, the lamp above everyone's heads suddenly went out.
Then the screen lit up, and a snowflake slowly drifted down from the corner, its movement in the wind delicately outlining the beautiful cursive characters in the center.
The Rise of the Rats in the Dead House
"A rat in a dead house?!"
Those present who had heard of the organization's name all gasped in astonishment.
I thought they were going to do something big, but it turns out they were just taking them to see a documentary about the organization's leader's struggles?
"Isn't this a bit too ostentatious?" someone muttered quietly.
"…………"
Fyodor, who was in the center of attention, remained indifferent and did not intend to comment on it.
"That's outrageous, Boss! This is a complete conspiracy against us!"
Pushkin was about to vent his anger, but after being given a cold glance by Fyodor, he immediately fell silent.
However, apart from this title, there was no producer, production company, or cast list on the screen. Only the biting north wind howled by, not only scattering the words outlined by snowflakes but also splashing up a spray of mud mixed with ice shards that hit the camera in the face.
When the camera switched, in the center of the slightly swaying car interior scene, there was a young face that most people present found familiar, slowly opening his wine-red eyes.
Only then did the film screening officially begin.
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