no longer human • 人間失格

Dazai was an awfully good strategist, and much as Chuuya loathed to admit it, it was… just how it is. But both plans - focused on taking slow enemies with more power than both of them - relied on Dazai staying out of the way, and for Chuuya to cover him. That idiot always worked like that. Always leaving the hard work to others, refraining from dirtying his hands further.

Chuuya had enough power to get whatever he wanted, and his loyalty meant that he did not mind his incredibly bloodstained hands. Two people marked by their efficiency, by how entrenched they were in the dark ways of the Port Mafia. “Double Black” was terribly ironic now, now that Dazai had turned his back on them. Chuuya wishes he could just let the whistles smack Dazai really hard, and then rescue him when the time is right. He does not do that, as disappointing as it is. Dazai makes Chuuya test his own strength, and he is very aware they are in a different situation now. But this also meant that Chuuya would have to be extra aware of his surroundings. Using his skills was never something he had a problem with, even when they did not include his ability. Dazai also knew that.

“Shut up and reload.”

There is something that courses through his veins. Excitement. Adrenaline. The moment before a battle begins, the bloodlust. He enjoys fighting, and this is a secret to no one. If it is something he found out on his own or influence of Arahabaki, he does not want to know it. The group of monsters start to spread apart once one is hit, and Chuuya dashes towards the staggered creature without hesitating. Even without his abilities, he wasn’t someone who you would take lightly. Not with how he smiles as he swings down the weapon on the creature’s head, listening to the satisfying crack of something splitting open. The sound of crystals shattering, the abnormality of it all.

It stops moving. Chuuya hits it again, making sure it will not get up. A monster just meant that it was hard to actually know where any vitals would be. It meant hitting everything, even if all the shattered crystals on the floor made it awfully harder. Chuuya pays attention to where he steps, using the corpse as a ledge to perform a jumping attack on the next one. Again, the sound of a weapon colliding with something hard.

It does not last long. The definitely annoying sound was there again, and something freezes him in place. That horrifying noise. The sound of two animals clashing. He did not pay attention to the creature next to him. The claws sink against his shoulder, and it takes everything he has not to scream. The weapon is dropped, but he still gathers his strength to hold the creature by its otherworldly shoulders, forcing it to turn around. Forcing it to be wide open for Dazai.

And that is why Chuuya hated these kind of plans. Becoming bait so his partner could take them down with ease was just a pretty way of saying “go get beat up and don’t die”. The pain flares up, and the claws sink in deeper. But he doesn’t let go. It is just that he doesn’t know if he’s screaming from his wound or screaming at Dazai. Or both.

Probably both, considering how annoyed he felt right now.

“Just shoot this thing already, damn it! Do you want it to rip my arm off!?”

Dazai’s next shot pulls a fraction to the left, clips a crystalline growth, and chips a fragment of it off. Not what he was going for, but it at least distracts the whistle he’d fired at. He tracks Chuuya’s movements while he reloads, preparing to focus down his own target.

Chuuya’s fighting is as flashy and high-energy as ever. It works as well as ever, too, so Dazai has no complaints, but it’s just so distinctly Chuuya. Dazai’s gotten used to working his way through scuffles and skirmishes alongside Kunikida, who’s far more conservative, far more restrained; Kunikida fights to end a conflict as quickly as possible, where Chuuya fights to feel like a person. 

Dazai chooses not to reflect on the parallels.

The rest of the creatures converge on Chuuya, drawn in either by the more direct threat he poses or by how utterly, unbearably alive he looks as he smashes his way through them. Dazai coolly picks off three of the monsters on the periphery of the group while they’re distracted, disabling them with bolts through the voice box and joints. 

Chuuya screams, and Dazai’s cold, calculating attention is instantly on the creatures attacking him. He fires another bolt and it punches through the singing whistle’s neck, cutting its voice off with an agonized hiss. As soon as he’s free, Chuuya wrestles the one attacking him into position for Dazai.

The seconds he spends loading the crossbow feel impossibly long. If any of the knives he could access from this position were weighted for throwing, he’d toss the bow down and go for them instead, but that’s not an option. So Dazai focuses on putting as much weight as possible into his draw, takes half a moment to aim, and watches the bolt smash into a cluster of crystals on the creature’s back, fracturing it.

Of course he did realize. At least some really far-off, distant part of his mind did. The one not currently concerned with the at least thirty problems on hand right now. Existential crisis apart, questions about his existence bubbling up after years of having put those to rest. Dazai could nullify his ability, but he simply could not erase all traces of that. Chuuya is brought down to reality when he notices Dazai pointing, and that tone of trying-really-hard-but-not-at-all-not-to-mock-him. Dazai was doing so anyway.

“You–”

It takes half a second for Chuuya’s voice to go from quiet to very loud.

“If you noticed it already, then why didn’t you–”

He raises his leg, about to spin and just - very hopefully - smash Dazai’s face against the floor when… he just stops. His rage fades, giving in to that serious tone he had before.

“Oi. Shitty Dazai.”

Hopping away from the gross mess he was stepping on already, Chuuya takes one step forward. And another. It is that damn annoying sound again. Maybe he did not see how far they traveled, or simply they did not walk that far off at all to be interrupted by one of the creatures. Either way, it wasn’t good. 

It also was weird to just have to use his hands. Weird.

The whistling noise gets louder. It is probably not just one. It never was. Things were never easy. Never with him. Less when Dazai was involved. 

“They’re coming. At least try not to die on me.”

Who knows. Maybe when this is all over and done with he can do that himself. 

The utter normalcy of Chuuya’s spluttering, voice-cracking anger would be relaxing, if Dazai ever truly relaxed. It’s grounding, at least, which is useful right now.

The whistles move towards them slowly and erratically, as if the workings of their bodies are unfamiliar even to them. It wasn’t listed in Cato’s bestiary as a general trait of the creatures, but the document is more poetic than practical, so Dazai already anticipated having to collect information in the field.

“I could say the same for you. We’ll go with ‘grey-haired crone,” Dazai says, naming a tactic they’ve used before against slow-moving but dangerous enemies.  “And ‘silver and shining spiderweb,’ if it comes down to it.”

He readies his bow as he speaks. The loading time of individual bolts makes the crossbow less mobile than a modern handgun, but it’s reliable in a way that the old-fashioned guns in the village aren’t, and the effect of the cold on his ability to reload doesn’t seem any more significant than it would be with a pistol. As expected.

Dazai cocks his bow, aims, and fires a bolt directly through the throat of the nearest creature, sending it reeling back and scrabbling at its own neck in confusion.

“You know what, mackerel? I am not even going to argue. Again, if you plan on making yourself useful—” He grabs the bat in midair and just lets it rest on his shoulder. If it wasn’t for his fancy clothes, Chuuya would probably look like a street punk. “– then at least provide actual backup. Having my ability would make this issue way easier, but then maybe the person who brought us here wanted us to fight without it.”

He is not dumb. This is suspicious. Chuuya starts walking without really caring if Dazai is following him (he is, because it is that annoying person, after all) while gently tapping the weapon against his shoulder. The calm before the storm allows him to think. 

“If ‘it’ was really gone, then I wouldn’t be here. If we don’t protect them, then there will be no place for us to stay. But I bet even your idiot brain can figure this out.”

Oooor he is coming up with excuses to do what he is doing right now. Dazai had accurately predicted that his instincts would flare up, that Chuuya would defend what he is begrudgingly calling home for the time being. Whatever it is, he is not telling. The snow is obnoxious and it clings to his shoes. It is different from asphalt, it is different from the dirt. It reduces his mobility, and he takes note of it.  

A part of him desperately hopes for some shred of normalcy right now. Or at least something weird that he would at least be used to. 

The club looks like a baseball bat over Chuuya’s shoulder. Even in a 40,000 yen hat, Chuuya can’t help but look like the same punk kid he’d been the day they met, height and all. 

Something else has never changed: Chuuya doesn’t talk about Arahabaki. If there’s one thing he keeps private, one thing Dazai hasn’t been able to pry out of him ever since that day in the warehouse, it’s more than a handful of words about the god. Which means there’s more on his mind than Dazai would like there to be.

Clearly, enough on his mind that he’s not watching where he’s going. There are still patches of slush and half-melted snow on the path out of the village. A few enterprising residents had started sweeping them away in the days before the whistles arrived, but abandoned the task when the blood started flowing. Understandably. They make for treacherous footing -- for Chuuya, at least, who’s so single-mindedly determined to avoid the slush that he keeps stomping through the patches of snow.

Dazai watches him struggle for a solid minute before he responds.

“Eh?”

Dazai is very lucky. If it wasn’t for the fact that Chuuya had other priorities at the moment, he would very well be a good practice target. But there were other things Chuuya had to do. It wasn’t a matter of being invested. It was a matter of protecting, of doing what he could. Even if it was none of his business, he couldn’t just stand still.

Stand still and watch everyone get probably attacked and more than probably die. He wouldn’t jump in to protect complete strangers, but there was the matter of needing these people to survive. Or at least this is what Chuuya says to himself. Killing is normal, and killing is something he has done before. He wasn’t going through the hypocritical ‘killing is bad’ train of thought. 

Killing without reason was another thing entirely. Even though this looks more like one of Dazai’s dumb RPGs that the waste of bandages left at his place over and over. Monsters killing, harming others indiscriminately. It wasn’t something that he could just accept. 

“Tch.”

And it was why he was going to crush them by himself. Or so he thought, before being greeted with the less-than-desired outcome. But one he should’ve seen it coming. Dazai was keeping an eye on him. Chuuya wasn’t dumb. Dazai has a plan - always had a plan - and it probably involves on observing people that he knows that possess an ability of some sort. To see if they were gone. To see if any new steps were added into activating them. 

Or just to piss him off. That would work, too. Chuuya is used to guns, to blades. He had to train himself to survive through situations where he could not use his power. Dazai’s existence made it painfully clear that he always needed a plan B. He is armed with the daggers he arrived with, and would figure strategy during his encounter. Logically, there should be a weak point somewhere. And also logically, he took a peek at some pictures before he decided to go. There was bound to be some kind of vulnerability somewhere. Chuuya understood this all too well - painfully aware of the consequences of unleashing his power. 

If he had it, then this would be marginally easier. And of course, this contributes to his incredibly foul mood.

“I’m not in the mood. Go find somewhere else to die, if you don’t plan on making yourself useful.”

He pauses, then takes a better look at his partner. The fact that he has a point irritates Chuuya to no end. But what surprises him is the fact that Dazai is just… willing to participate. Odd. 

“What? Aren’t you going to stay and gather information on people wounded? That suits you better than carrying this bunch of garbage. You’re the kind of awful person who would rather sit still and watch as disaster passes by.”

It is also a clear fact that he eyes the club Dazai is carrying with obvious interest. Could come useful. Or it would, if Dazai had any strength on his arms. He wasn’t exactly bad at it, but… honestly? That idiot worked better with ranged firearms. 

“Give me that.”

As much information and good will as he could collect out of making himself busy in the Warmhouse, Dazai’s training is in field medicine. Once patients are stable enough to be moved to a medical facility, it ceases to be an efficient use of resources for him to treat them. His time is better spent in a role that no one else present can fill, like providing specialized combat support for his old partner as the idiot high-kicks his way through the whistle population.

Besides, he doesn’t make a habit out of spending time around scalpels.

Dazai just hums noncommittally in response -- there’s no point in protesting that last accusation, not when Chuuya’s known him since long before he left the mafia -- and tosses the club at Chuuya.

“I’m more useful as tactical support than as an extra pair of hands in the infirmary. And you’re more useful alive than as a very tiny corpse.”

“Heading out?”

Of course he is. Of course Chuuya is already invested in these people. Of course Chuuya will jump at the chance to work off his feelings on an enemy. Of course Chuuya, without his Ability available to protect any allies present, will run off on his own. It’s fortunate Dazai is here to waylay him.

It’s equally fortunate that his skill with firearms has transferred well to crossbows, because Dazai doesn’t want anything to do with the claws on those monsters. He’s got the crossbow he picked up a few weeks ago in a sling over his shoulder and a club -- courtesy of a quick trip to Frederika and the Grip -- in one hand. And concealed knives, but that’s a given.

@bandagemaniac

@andneptunedid

@treasureheist

i may re-use some of these blogs for independent rp while i’m waiting to see if life calms down enough for me to handle group rp again... rip

it’s been really fun playing with everyone and i look forward to hopefully coming back in a month or two! <333 take care and have fun!

Min considers the menu blackboard on the stall’s back wall, half-rotted away so that some of the oil-slick-black timbers show through. “Do you have mung bean noodles?” she asks the rat hopefully, slumping when it shakes its head. “Um… Tonkotsu ramen then. I didn’t eat Japanese very often at home,” this directed at Dazai. “But there was a ramen place across from the apartment I had with the LB and, you know. Late nights, rather have that than burgers or knock-offs of my dad’s cooking.”

That was a long time ago, she starts to say, but then remembers she doesn’t know how long. Her old life is like one big dream sequence, fading into the blood-flecked and visceral reality of life in the fog, which itself seems a nightmare compared to Aldebaran. Layers of dreams, one on top of the other. Like blankets piled high enough to smother.

She’s spacing out. Dazai has ordered and is glancing askew at her; behind the counter, the rat is tending to a vat of bubbling water with one uncanny-valley hand-paw and chopping vegetables with the other. “You’re a detective? I knew a detective back in the fog, but he was police.” Min leans forward and pillows her cheek on her hand, turning her face to Dazai. “You must’ve had some interesting cases that weren’t just finding lost cats, right?”

It takes Dazai a moment to sift through his options. Murders are interesting, yes, but they’re not likely to elicit a personal reaction unless he hits on an M.O. that Min is familiar with. Abuse is never fun to talk about. Kidnapping, then. Given that they’re all technically kidnapping victims at the moment, he should at least be able to suss out her feelings about their current situation. And maybe get her out of whatever fog she’s found herself back in.

“Weeeeell, my first case at the Agency was pretty exciting. I’d been unemployed for a few years and then was suddenly recommended for this job, so I was thrown right from unemployment into a kidnapping case!” He pauses for a moment for dramatic effect, eyes sparkling. (It’s also a pause to check her reaction.) “I was assigned the stuffiest guy on the planet as a partner -- he has his daily schedule planned out to the literal second, no joke -- and we headed out to review security footage and meet with a few of his contacts. One was a taxi driver, ex-police. It’s amazing how many helpful contacts Kunikida has, what with his personality and all. Anyway, the taxi driver told us...”

Their wait for their food is filled with Dazai exaggerating, gesticulating, and generally making the Yokohama Disappearance case sound significantly funnier than it actually was. He leaves out having to hold Kunikida back as victims were gassed to death in front of them. Events are reordered. Sasaki’s role is sandpapered vigorously down to “beautiful victim rescued from drowning,” and the Azure Messenger angle is gone entirely; the whole thing turns out sounding more like an entertaining episode of a crime drama than the tragedy that it was. 

But he’s careful to leave in the trapped survivors, the abandoned hospital, a light reference to Kunikida’s self-blame, a mention of a link to terrorism, Sasaki’s survivor’s guilt. Things that someone with trauma might connect to.

Whatever ever-increasing urge to punch Dazai was being miraculously toned down. He couldn’t even punch the wall, knowing that even without powers there would be eventual damage to the stupid room they were staying in.

“Whatever. Whatever, you are so fucking annoying I would do anything to shut you up permanently—”

He was right. It was incredibly easier to deal with the hatred and distasteful comments than it was to accept the rest of their current situation. It was something Chuuya would never acknowledge, so it was also something that would never surface on its own. 

Chuuya sighs, and instead of going back to drinking the wine Dazai brought… he just stands up. Takes his hat and jacket off, throwing both at Dazai’s face. He was taking up space in his bed, anyways. 

“I could just escort you back to your own place, but it’s easier to just let you stay here tonight. It’s easier to keep an eye on you like this, too.”

Glancing at his ex-now-current-partner, Chuuya feels a pang of. Something. He doesn’t know why. Writes it off as anger. Again, easier to deal with than traversing the murky waters that consist of their relationship. It would not be the same, it would never be the same. From years ago. They were both different people, both had things they considered priorities. They were not the same anymore. And when misaligned, Dazai saw no sense to continue being there. Chuuya also accepted that. 

“Get up, stupid.”

Some things, however… he also accepted that would never change. He drags Dazai off his bed and bedroom by the collar of his shirt, ignoring how much the idiot would naturally struggle until the much-needed scenery change brought them to the kitchen. He forces Dazai to sit down. 

“I would demand you to help me, but knowing you you’d make this task so incredibly obnoxious that I would wake up this entire shitty tree-house. And also knowing you…”

There was a short pause where Chuuya takes off his gloves and gently places them on the dinner table, just so they wouldn’t get stained or in his way while he does his thing. He turns to Dazai again.

“… You haven’t eaten in a long while. If you’re forcing me to cooperate with you, the least you could do is keep yourself alive. So? What would you like to eat?”

“It was a joke,” Dazai says, trying to slide off the bed and out of reach before Chuuya can get a hand on his collar, “I’d rather die than spend more time than I need to with you. Well, I’d rather die than do most things, but-- hey, does that empty head of yours have working ears--”

Chuuya is strong and, while that’s useful under other circumstances, Dazai isn’t loving it right now. He could maybe get away if he really tried, but he’d be leaving injured and with Chuuya less inclined to assist him. And he does need to eat. Technically. A human body can’t survive on protein shakes and caffeine forever. Technically.

So Dazai keeps his struggles dramatic and whiny and ineffectual and generally acts like a cat that’s been picked up against its will. Halfway to the kitchen he goes limp to be annoying, then renews his efforts when he realizes Chuuya isn’t bothered by his dead weight. It takes longer than it should for him to end up in one of the kitchen chairs; when he does, he collapses face-first onto the table, corpse-like.

“I’m not dead yet,” he says into the cold wood of the table, as if it’s a sharp riposte and not a half-petulant complaint. “And I don’t know if Chuuya can reach the cabinets without hurting himself! But if you insist.”

Dazai lifts his head from the table with all the dramatic effect of a long-haired girl in a horror movie rising from a well... to reveal a red mark on his forehead from where it was pressed into the tabletop for the last minute. It looks kind of dumb. It may or may not utterly defeat the effect of his dark smile and steepled fingers.

New messages. Will is lying sleeplessly on his bed, over the covers, as he pulls up the app on his holophone. They seem to be from a real person, insofar as Will is willing to believe anyone in the Ark is a real person. Close enough.

[msg] I have to say, the idea that this whole place is generated by the same kind of process is tantalizing, if unnerving.

[msg] But yes, I’ve noticed. The books have the exact same unnatural cadence as, well, everything

[msg] You’re in the Palilicium? Meet me in the ground floor foyer tomorrow at, say, noon? We can walk from there

Not that Will has a particular destination in mind, but it seems gauche somehow just to invite this guy to meet in his own room. Not to mention far too intimate. Will drums his fingers thoughtfully against the side of his holophone and adds:

[msg] Unless you have any other pressing engagements.

Maybe that’s rude. He means it wryly - the idea that other people could be simply going about their lives as usual in the Ark has occurred to him, but he finds it strangely repulsive. Anyway, he doesn’t feel especially beholden to the proper etiquette for alien reconnaissance, if such a thing exists.

Will flicks off his holophone, folds his hands over his stomach, and waits.

[msg] i’m free~~~ [msg] see you then☆☆

The foyer of the Palilicium is as artificially spooky as the rest of it. Ornate wallpaper is worn away at too-regular intervals, and a massive, intricate painting of what Dazai assumes is rat royalty watches over the room, its gaze flickering from one area to another. It lingers on Dazai, sometimes, but he isn’t bothered. He’s used to being watched. A haunted house gimmick doesn’t compare to anything he’s dealt with before.

Will, when he arrives, is approximately what Dazai had expected. The awkwardness of his profile photo is echoed in his stilted movements; he’s handsome, but carries himself as if he either isn’t aware of it or it doesn’t matter to him. Dazai smiles, half to himself.

“A pleasure to meet you, Will. I’m Dazai. Dazai Osamu.” He hops up from where he’d been half-sitting on a decorative credenza near the door and offers a wave. Will seems to be the type who dislikes physical contact with strangers, so no handshakes today. It’s not as though Dazai is fond of it, himself.

“Don’t be fucking obnoxious.” he barks back almost immediately “I knew you would stop such a small thing with that annoying ability of yours.”

If he didn’t, Chuuya would be in trouble. But that wasn’t the case, so there. After shoving the rest of the bullets back to his coat (no way he would get Dazai get more than the one he had so thoughtfully gifted to him, no. he could buy his own) he lets his body fall back on the armchair, annoyed by this whole situation. Not only he had to Deal With This, he definitely didn’t sign up for the almost-sure destiny of Dazai hanging out more than he had to.

“If that was what you wanted to know, then there. I’m not going to be your guinea pig today. That was your use for the day, right?”  

Not a question that needed answering. If it wasn’t, then he would have to deal with cleaning all the blood off. And the rest. As reckless as it was, it was… good. That Dazai had to activate this manually, that he would be vulnerable. That he would depend on it to get out of sticky situations. 

That Chuuya didn’t need this at the moment, his powers completely fine as they were. This was the only man who could stop Arahabaki’s rampage, but now something else went and contained the raging beast inside Chuuya. If it wasn’t for the stupid limitations, he would be okay leaving things like that. But unfortunately he was aware Mori needed his full powers if something came up. 

And then Mori needed Dazai alive to make sure Chuuya didn’t die. Not that it would stop his boss from sacrificing him if needed be. He wasn’t afraid to die, he just thought the idea of depending on someone to live was incredibly abhorrent. 

Right now, he would rather not think about that. He could worry about it when he gets home, when things are normal. And not this. Not this anger at being used again. It was fine. Whatever. He could deal with it, even if he didn’t want to. 

“If you want information, then I can go and find out more. If that’s it, you can leave. Did you a favor and let you know that yes, you can still stop my ability as always. 

Go crawl back to the hole where you came from. Wherever that is.”

He didn’t really bother checking the list of all addresses and the sort. He just wanted Dazai out, out before he could open his mouth again and start getting on his nerves. If he did, maybe Chuuya would not stop himself this time and just use the rest of his bullets right there and now. 

“It was my use for the day.”

“Which means,” he says, rolling onto his side and striking an effortlessly smug pose, “that I am a helpless, weak, vulnerable citizen of the Ark until tomorrow. Anyone could attack me. While I’m sure you’d love that, we are working together now.” 

Dazai’s widening smile is more mischievous than malicious, this time. Now he’s pushing Chuuya just because he can, not for any particular purpose. It’s not that he’s been on edge the entire time he’s been here, or that he can’t relax around anyone on the Ark but Chuuya, or that their old hatred is an easier dance than trying to actually get close to any of these strangers. Well. It is all of those things, and he just confirmed to himself that it’s those things by thinking about them to begin with. 

But he can keep that to himself. To anyone else’s eyes, he’s just teasing Chuuya because Chuuya is so teasable.

“There’s no-one trying to kill me, so yeah,” Min says emphatically. She follows Dazai’s lead back into the labyrinthine interior of Crises, matching his pace and trying not to look too surprised when the road to the Palilicium abruptly disappears behind them. A library flanked by imitation Parthenon columns rises in its place; in the corner of her vision, an anthro rat scuttles inside.

“Yet,” she tacks on, because Crises does rather give the impression that they’re going to be jumped at any second. She glances at Dazai; he’s staring straight ahead with an ever-so-charming smile pasted to his face. He’s not precisely what she expected - older, for one thing - but in other ways, he’s quite the same as everyone Min ever met in the fog. Thin, fast on his feet, eyes dark as smoky glass, like the windows to his soul have been hung with black-out curtains. Paradoxically, it makes Min trust him more. The softest teammates are the ones who die first.

“The food and sleep thing wasn’t so bad. We didn’t need to eat or sleep after we got to the fog, so it… stopped mattering pretty fast.” Min attempts a shrug. “What about you? What’d you do before they got you?”

“Oh, nothing as interesting as you. I was a detective. For a private agency, not the police. I’ve spent a lot of time chasing cats and finding lost items lately.” Which is all technically true. It’s not honest, but it’s true. He’d drop the Armed Detective Agency’s name if it would help, but he and Chuuya appear to be the only residents from “their” Yokohama, so Dazai’s inclined to keep their reputation and capability under wraps for now. 

“That fog sounds incredible. I’ve seen some strange things, but never a power that can prevent hunger or thirst,” he says as they round the corner and walk almost directly into a noodle stand painted in dreary off-black. Instead of soft, warm light spilling out from it, the stand is illuminated by what appeared to be blacklight bulbs and intricate little neon signs of rats slurping noodles. “Ah, we’re here! It’s very kind of this place to provide such atmospheric versions of food from home.”

Something about Min -- the way she brushes off what sounds like a horrific experience, maybe, or her cautious optimism about food -- reminds him a bit of someone else. It has him folding himself onto a stool and idly skimming the menu, looking for chazuke.