Work Text:
1.
jurassatsu has entered <JIROJIRO (＠_＠)>
jurassatsu says: UMMM
jurassatsu says: Has anyone seen this article…..
jurassatsu says: ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ
Rubix823: where is the link
jurassatsu says: Oh oops
jurassatsu sent a link!
jurassatsu says: Here (´• ω •`)ﾉ
Rubix823 says: that’s obviously not real
※※chnswr※※ says: We were just talking about u Jura!!!!
jurassatsu says: Whaaaaat??
jurassatsu says: To both things whaaaaat fake???
Rubix823 says: this guy obviously isn’t him
jurassatsu says: You think???? And why were you talking about me (/▿＼ )
Rubix823 says: he’s a fisherman
※※chnswr※※ says: Someone called in on my local radio show and i totally thought it was u!!! Or sounded like u
jurassatsu says: Chainsaw man could be a fisherman!!
jurassatsu says: And oh wow that wasn’t me but what did the person say??
Rubix823 says: there’s no way that chainsaw man is a fisherman it’s obviously a scam. And that news outlet isn’t any better for even indulging him. A chainsaw can’t swim
Rubix823 says: i bet he’s exposed by the end of the week
jurassatsu says: Ohh rubi you’re so serious
jurassatsu says: wwww ( = ⩊ = )
jurassatsu says: I guess you’re right though
※※chnswr※※ says: It was a student calling in to complain about how much studying she had to do it totally reminded me of you
jurassatsu says: That does sound like me www
jurassatsu says: But you two know too right….
jurassatsu says: The pain (｡•́︿•̀｡)
※※chnswr※※ says: Yes my homeroom teacher is being such a pain in my ass!!! We were talking about that too
jurassatsu says: Rubi is too smart for us I bet
jurassatsu says: Doesn’t even have to go to cram school
Rubix823: that guy apparently has two kids who say he lost it after their mom divorced him and this is him lying to get attention
Rubix823: people are already talking about it on forums
jurassatsu says: He could still be chainsaw man…..
jurassatsu says: Or I guess not (￣▽￣*)ゞthat’d be pretty lame
Rubix823: if chainsaw man turned out to be some deadbeat then we might as well all just jump off the nearest tall building
jurasssatsu says: You’re right as usual rubi wwwwwww
jurassatsu says: Oh but did you see this one?
jurassatsu sent a link!
Rubix823 says: what devil is that?
jurassatsu says: I think it’s the praying mantis devil!!
jurassatsu says: You can see it takes the guy’s head right off
jurassatsu says: It’s kind of like my sister’s dolls (・ω・)
※※chnswr※※ says: Gross wwww
※※chnswr※※ says: Did you get it from ur brother’s friend again?
jurassatsu says: Yes he has access to all of the best ones!!!
jurassatsu says: This attack was only yesterday I think
jurassatsu says: Apparently they were filming something for a short film and his friend caught it \(๑•́o•̀๑)/ \(๑•́o•̀๑)/
jurassatsu says: The friend dies too but my brother’s friend is still trying to find the rest of the video!!! Apparently it didn’t stop filming until the public safety people got there and found it
Rubix823 says: i haven’t heard anything about it in the news
Rubix823 says: where does he get his stuff from?
jurassatsu says: Ohhh I’m not supposed to ask…. Maybe someone in public safety? Conspiracy c( O.O )ɔ
jurassatsu says: Pretty neat though right?
Rubix823 says: yeah that blood spray is brutal
Rubix823 says: i’d really want to take a dive if i was killed by a bug devil
jurassatsu says: ٩( ᗒᗨᗕ )۶
jurassatsu says: Rubiiiii you’re so funny
jurassatsu says: Ohh also do you still think you could help me out with my math exam 人(_ _*) 人(_ _*)
2.
Junko feels the wall even though she’s floating. It is nothing but sad, gray cement against the pads of her fingers, cold in a way that’s crawling up through her veins. It’ll reach her brain eventually. Even though she’s stepped away from the main room, her body still feels flush—warm—too much and too alive.
She tugs on her top. Asahi tracks the movement. He’s pretty unabashed in his leering. He’s been checking out her tits all night. The hallway feels too thin; the air between them is foggy with the smoke of his cigarette and something pulsing behind her eyes. EDM music, elastic and bouncing, pulses through the walls.
Asahi takes a pull. He says, “Heard the Chinese dude that Tetsu gets his shit from has gone AWOL.”
“Huh,” Junko says. She glances at the expanse of the concrete wall that extends down the hallway. It leaves lines in her vision that remain in place even when she looks away.
“They’re really cracking down on this shit, I guess,” Asahi says.
“Huh,” Junko says. “That’s no good.”
Asahi snorts.
“What,” Junko says, and Asahi’s kind of dull, but a breathless laugh escapes her anyways. She blinks.
He says, “A little more than no good. Do you even watch the news?”
“Mmm,” Junko says. “No. Maybe not.” It’s all kind of the same, anyway. “Something happen?”
“Some police minister went on TV to announce their grand national crackdown on narcotics.”
Yes, it really is all the same. “They weren’t before?” she says, scratching at her ear.
“Devil attacks have been increasing.” Asahi talks a lot. He often seems to think he’s the most important person in the room. She doesn't know if all grad students are like this or just him. It's probably him. “And apparently the drug-addled youth are to blame. Ruining the fucking cities and everything. Breeding fear.”
She says, “And otherwise.”
He ignores her. He’s really no fun. Aren’t you supposed to have fun at a club? “I saw this psychologist on the local news. He says all the extra paranoia is making people lose it. More afraid. Makes the devils stronger. And all because of the coke and LSD that the Soviets are bussing in, of course.”
“My guy’s not Red,” she says.
He says, “Like that matters.” A pause: another pull. “You should care about this stuff, you know,” Asahi says.
She says, “I care.”
Junko thinks that she needs another dose. Tetsu’s the only one she trusts to get her X from, but if his guy’s really going down, that’ll be a real pain to figure out. It’s something for another day.
“They elected a whole new cabinet for this shit. Rumor is that they’re upping the mandatory minimums on sentencing. And dumping funding into policing agencies.”
“I think,” she says, and she closes her eyes, “that Chainsaw Man’s gonna save the world.”
There is still a pleasant droning smudging at her brain. She’s passed that initial hurdle of mindlessness, maybe, and can feel the inevitable crash encroaching beyond the thin skin of her eyelids—but for now, she lets herself float here, in this hallway.
She hears Asahi scoff.
“Oh?” she says.
“Don’t tell me you actually buy that crap.”
“I don’t need to. Or maybe I do. It doesn’t matter.” She opens her eyes. The light clamors around: loud, jangling. Her tongue is dry. She must need another round of dancing. “Why are you telling me this?”
Asahi considers her. His gaze travels down and then back up to her face. “You get caught, and it’s game over. I heard they’re shoving prisoners into Public Safety work.”
Uppers. And dancing. Yeah. She needs something with some perkiness. She looks up at one of the hallway’s fluorescent lights. Why is it so loud? “We’ll all probably be dead by the end of the week,” she says. “And if not, then next. And then the next one. Or,” she says, wondering, “maybe even the one after that.”
He does look a little perturbed, at least. Or maybe just irritated. “That’s cowardly,” he says.
“I want to have fun,” she says, and she starts down the hallway. “I’m behind on my rent.”
The music grows louder the closer to the doors that she gets, pounding, pounding, pounding. A couple tucked away in the corner and wrapped up around one another moan, and her ears ring with shrill laughter that slips through the cracks in the concrete. Or it’s shrieking, maybe, as a devil slips onto the dancefloor and crushes them like grapes to turn into fizzy, bubbling, repugnant wine. Junko wants her body to move until it can’t.
3.
<ASK KENJI-SENPAI>
—the ONLY advice column to meet your needs!!!! made FOR teenagers BY teenagers!!!—
K: STUDENTS!!! Have you been studying??? Your senpai will know if you haven’t been! It’s important to keep at it even when stressed out! You need good grades to get into a good college, and once you’re there, the world is your oyster. And you’ll have to remember your dear Kenji-senpai who helped you get there! Let’s hear from some of our students today!!!
R1: Hi Kenji-senpai. I still haven’t forgiven you for suggesting sesame crackers as a snack… who are you, my Dad?! I’m having trouble with a teacher of mine who just won’t let up on me about my exam scores, even when I’m trying. What should I do to get her off my tail?
K: Sesame is great for the brain, didn’t you know that? It really is true. Teachers should have your best interest in mind, so I bet your teacher has your best interest in mind, too. It’s just tough love! Maybe offer her a snack to show her your gratitude… since there are snacks that all people like, regardless of age!!
R2: KENJI-SENPAI… it is me again!! I wrote about the girl in my class who I just can’t beat. She has perfect scores, the teachers always call on her, and she can sweep the hallway in just two seconds…!! I took your advice last time and tried asking her for tips in an extension of goodwill, but she just laughed in my face and told me only in my dreams!! She has a ton of dogs I think (she always has fur on her clothes!!) and now I’m scared that she’ll sic them on me… and I think she knows this because I once caught her looking at me and it was like she SNARLED! I’m worried for the worst now…. Please guide me!!! Will she kill me!!?
K: Luckily, murder is illegal, and our government officials and police forces will keep you safe from any hostile attacks! Most apartment complexes these days have breed specifications for animals, as well. While we as students should ideally work together in order to ensure that we all reach our goals, there can also be value in having friendly competition from time to time. In fact, this friendly competition can be exactly what drives growth and innovation! If your classmate doesn’t seem interested in sharing her studying habits, then treating her as a supportive academic rival could be in both of your interests.
R3: Kenji-senpai, some of my family members recently died in a devil attack and I’m struggling to keep up with some of my responsibilities in life. I don’t want to fail, but things are just hard right now.
K: Stress can always be hard to deal with—even for practiced students like your senpai! In times like these, it’s always good to center yourself with your priorities in life. There will always be trouble, but we can use those tragedies to push us forward!! I’m sure your family members would want you to do well in your schooling and set yourself up for success in life.
That was this week with KENJI-SENPAI!! I always love hearing from my students all around the country. Remember to keep studying, keep snacking, and tune in next week for another round of advice from your favorite upperclassman!!
4.
Frog has always been Frog, but Frog has not always been this version of Frog.
It is a clumsy thing, to learn how to walk in this body. Frog’s first steps were barely those at all. Frog used these human feet and human hands to lurch through the warehouse, through the alleyway, between roads and buildings—following a map in its head to someplace that this body considered a home.
Frog’s memories are blurry. A pile of goop. Frog is pretty sure that it is not this body so much as it owns it, but the line, too, is blurry. Frog remembers being chained up by humans—before it was part of a human—and being forced to do things Frog had no interest in doing.
Frog remembers killing some of those humans, and some of those humans trying to kill it. And it can remember the gasping, syrupy nature of dying, before it stopped dying because it found this body and now it lives, even if less powerful than before.
That was before, though. Now Frog is in a human apartment, and worst of all, Frog is not alone in this apartment.
This body was a man’s, once, and this man engaged in ethically dubious activities. Frog has no reason to know what humans find to be ethically dubious, but this body evidently did, as he took pleasure in his crookedness. This body’s apartment is small, cramped, and a place he rarely spent time within.
This apartment was also not inhabited just by this body.
The child sends Frog nervous glances across the table, but this does not interrupt the way that she ravenously consumes the bread that Frog has given her. This body did not have custody of this child, but it did not keep the mother of this body’s child from handing over the child to this body when she had things to do, allegedly.
This body left out food for the child while he was away doing his business, but the child ate through the food too quickly. Frog imagines the amount of time this body spent away from the apartment has partially to do with some of those especially fuzzy moments of coming to consciousness—between being Just Frog and then Frog In This Body—but it does not seem like this body was in much of a rush to get home before then.
No, not when Frog came upon this child in this apartment with her wide, fearful eyes, and gangly limbs struggling to push herself off of the floor.
Frog says, “I am not your father.”
The child glances away, and then she glances back. She doesn’t say anything. She takes another bite before grabbing another slice of bread.
“I am a fiend. Your father is dead.”
Frog is pretty sure that it is the one that killed this body, but perhaps this is not good to say aloud.
The child swallows. “Is that why your eyes look funny…?” Her voice is tenuous. This is the first thing that Frog has heard the child say.
“Yes,” Frog says.
This body’s memories tell it that the child’s mother will come eventually. Frog ensured that the child cleaned itself of most of its filth and that she had enough food from the store down the street to last until that point.
Frog tells the child this. “Tomorrow,” it says. “She should be here tomorrow.” Frog stands and ignores the fear that lances through the child's face.
In the meantime, Frog cannot stay in this apartment. Not when those humans are surely looking for it. That devil-hunting government organization, too, likely. How noble. Frog cannot be here.
At the door, Frog feels something tug on the clothes that this body is wearing. It looks down to see wide, wide eyes.
“I’m leaving,” it says.
“But,” the child says.
“I am not your father,” it says.
“But,” the child says.
“Your mother will be here soon,” it says.
“But,” the child says.
Humans are such terrible, terrible creatures. The child standing before it is proof of that. Those humans that it killed are proof of that.
Frog is not ashamed to admit that it is a monster. Shame, it thinks, are monsters that hide beneath soft flesh and arrogance.
And yet the child looks up at it and says, “Don’t leave me alone.”
They left Frog chained up in a cage. They’d take Frog from its cage to put it in another cage. A great devil of Hell, demoted to a plaything for a bunch of terrible, terrible humans, left to dither and wallow and cover itself in gore each night. Frog, compared to its brethren, has never found much joy in violence, despite its revulsion towards these pitiful creatures.
But perhaps it had figured that nothing could be worse. Perhaps it had reached its limit.
“Please,” the child says.
“They’ve wronged you,” Frog says. “You have been nothing but wronged in your short existence.”
Frog cannot remember being born: simply being.
The child’s grip tightens. “We can get more bread…?”
Frog would like to find a nice pond away from the noise of this place.
Terrible, terrible creatures, and monsters all around.
“Bread will get soggy,” it says. “You will need a hat.”
5.
As elected acting President despite naysayers and proto-fascists alike, Nao would like everyone to know that the 1998 Annual Chainsaw Man Fan Club Meeting was planned for long before that stupid Church came into play.
She was a fan before he—Chainsaw Man—ever started getting featured on regular broadcasts. There weren’t even Chainsaw Man magazine contests yet when she first started liking him! And Nao isn’t saying that she’s cooler or better or cooler than anyone because she liked him first, just that some of these newbies really don’t even know what they’re talking about.
Like the kid in front of her. He’s wearing a hat and a bandana, which is really over-exaggerating, she thinks, and he’s smiling at her like they’re at all the same, which they really aren’t. She didn’t recognize his screen name despite him claiming that he used to use the original forum before it was nuked because the server kept crashing. Because of people like him, who jumped on the train late and ruined fun for all of them.
There’s a girl with him, too, and honestly, she’s kind of creepy, with these ringed irises in her eyes that Nao bets are weird contacts. Save it for cosplaying, Nao thinks. The swanky earrings, too. She bets she’s not even a real fan. She hasn’t said anything yet, just kind of watching Nao like she’s a shiny stag beetle on a tree or something.
“I already told you,” Nao says, “here, and in our emails, that I’m not interested.”
They’re at some themed cafe. Women in maid costumes bustle around them. She only agreed to talk to them on a technicality.
The kid sticks out his hands and smiles. She’s seen him do the same thing on TV. “I think we have a really great mutual interest here. We’ve already accepted a lot of former members of the Chainsaw Man Fan Club into our ranks.”
Nao feels her lip curl up in disgust. Is he doing it to mock her? The Great Schism of 1998 isn’t something to talk about so casually. “Our official policy was to ignore your little church,” she says, “so I really don’t care about anyone who decided to ignore that.”
Like Daichi. Stupid Daichi. Daichi was a cunt before he ever decided to jump ship. She never knew how he was elected in the first place. He was really bad at being a secretary, and he didn’t even get good snacks for their meeting.
Their meeting, which was supposed to be the first-ever formalized meeting for Chainsaw Man fans across the GLOBE, which got freaking hijacked by all these stupid whispers about that church and some chick named Mitaka and Chainsaw Man not actually being Chainsaw Man or doing what Chainsaw Man is supposed to do—
Ugh.
The kid says, “I understand that we may have our differences—” Nao snorts “—but I think we can be united in our mutual interests. Community is important, isn’t it?”
Nao sits up straighter in her seat, incensed. “Listen here,” she says, pointing. “This isn’t just an interest for me, and if you people weren’t just a bunch of—grifting posers, then you’d actually know that.”
The kid actually manages to look a little offended. “Posers?”
“Posers,” Nao repeats.
“The Chainsaw Man Church—”
“Is worthless. Meaningless.” Nao says, “I don’t know who’s running your stupid little organization, but I’m not going to let you stomp all over what’s left of my club.”
The Chainsaw Man Church wasn’t there when they were making the original Rev it Up zine, or when they were sending out letters of support for Chainsaw Man on the local radio stations, or when they leaked the addresses of all of those biased, propaganda-spewing journalists, and when Nao built this thing from the ground up with her own two hands.
Without moving, the creepy girl says, “You’re bleeding members.”
Her tone is flat. She says it like a fact.
Crossing her arms over her chest, Nao says, “So?”
“You will continue to bleed members,” she says, her gaze unflinching, “or we can absorb you into our ranks, and I’ll let you retain a position of equivalent standing. That, or you stop all defamation regarding our organization.”
“Do you think I lack a spine or something?” Nao cries. “It’s your whole belief system! Your ideology! Who the hell is Mitaka Asa or that fake guy you have prancing around as Chainsaw Man, anyway? You want to talk about sacrilegious?!”
Nao stands. The table clatters against her knees. It was a stupid idea to even come here. The kid looks like he’s about to say something, and the creepy girl doesn’t look like she’s about to say something, and their maid waitress is hovering nearby with a platter of frilly parfaits and powdered danishes and ice cream sundaes.
“I have morals,” Nao says, resolute. "You're all problematic."
The creepy girl says, “Do you want to help Chainsaw Man?”
“I already do,” she snaps. “And I know who he really is.”
When Nao was a child, her grandmother used to watch over her while her parents were away at work. She did, at least, until a devil crashed through her neighborhood and Nana got crushed by the roof. They only had her legs to cremate. Nao remembers tugging them out from the rubble, body on autopilot as sirens wailed and she waited for her parents to get home.
Yes: she remembers what it’s like to sit on the pavement with your grandmother’s legs in your lap while the world moves forward around you.
She says, “The answer is no. And if you see Daichi around your little worship gatherings or whatever, you can tell him to suck a dick.”
Nao knows Chainsaw Man because the real Chainsaw Man would never sell himself out for some stupid, kitschy little cultish church to go on holiday or something. Not when there are people out there to save.
6.
“No,” Chihiro says. “It’s three cabbages for thirty percent off, but if you’re also purchasing two juice pouches then there’s an additional 2 yen off. But if you’re buying more than eight items altogether, you have to pay a tax on that, and if it’s less than twelve, you also have to pay a tax on that. But seven is our lucky number today.”
The customer says: “Gwuh—what? But I have a—I thought there was a special!”
“Yes,” Chihiro says. “The coupon applies to half of the days of the week and during the hours of 10:00 to 16:00. Our machines only allow us to process certain coupons manually, however, and that one—” Chihiro leans forward to take a closer look at the flyer the customer holds “—unfortunately isn’t one that we’d be able to process today for a litany of previously mentioned reasons.”
“Litany—” The customer seems to receive this information. The customer does not appear to process this information in an adequate fashion. “I just want to buy the cabbage that’s on sale.”
“As I told you—”
“I heard what you said and none of that shit really makes sense to me. What the fuck are with all of these stupid rules?”
The customer feels slighted by store policy. There are various options that the customer could take to remedy this situation.
“If you come during the week, you should be able to access this particular special, though you’d still need to take into account your fruit pouch to cabbage ratio.”
“Huh?” The customer blinks rapidly before his expression devolves into a sneer. “I have school. I can’t come during the week.”
Chihiro says, “Perhaps a parent or a trusted adult could pick up the cabbage while you’re busy studying.”
“A parent—? I’m in charge of getting the cabbage.” Lifting up the flyer, he says, “My little sister said that we’re supposed to be able to get three cabbages so I’m going to get three cabbages.”
Chihiro grabs a pamphlet from behind the counter. “This helpful guide outlines our various policies regarding our specials, coupons, and weekly deals. If you see here—” Chihiro points “—this section defines our overarching concerns regarding produce, items that start with a ki character, and round objects that are green.”
The customer’s eyes appear to rove over the pamphlet. The customer squints. The customer seems confused and perhaps flustered. The goal was not to fluster the customer.
“Or,” Chihiro says, putting the pamphlet away, “I could orally walk you through each tenet of our fiscal plan in order to best meet your needs.”
The customer doesn’t appear mollified by Chihiro’s attempt to verbally guide him through company policy.
“Whatever,” the customer says, and he casts a glance behind him, at the produce aisle.
Chihiro says, “We have a very clear policy against theft—”
“I’m not gonna steal the fuckin’ cabbages,” the customer bites out. “Your— policy or whatever is stupid as shit. Screw the stupid cabbages.”
Chihiro asks, “Could I perhaps ask you to engage in a survey to understand how I was able to help you today?”
“A what? No,” the customer says, shoving his hands into his pockets, “screw this shit. Stupid school.”
Chihiro watches the customer leave. The customer has a very poor posture. Teenagers these days don't value their health enough.
Objectively, this is a lost sale. Chihiro also provided all the help that he could provide, and the customer refused to provide feedback as to how Chihiro could have engaged with him better. In his eyes, he did all that he could, and he knows that management would agree. He prevented theft from occurring, at the very least.
Chihiro’s coworker, Megumi, sidles up next to him. Megumi has recently gotten a nose piercing that appears to be on the path of infection. She can’t keep herself from touching it.
“We probably could have just let him off with a cabbage,” Megumi says.
Chihiro says, “Company policy—”
“Yeah, whatever. You know,” Megumi says, “no matter how much ass-kissing you do, the guys up top will still be up top, and you’ll be down here.”
“I believe in our company values,” Chihiro says. Their company believes that everyone should put in their best effort for the good of the whole, and that decent work is always paid back.
Megumi looks at him, and then she says, “I guess you do.”
There’s a customer nearby sending a wary glance at the egg salad sandwiches that have been discounted after a day. They’re implementing a new system that uses fractions and decimals to mark meals down, and evidently, the customer is in need of assistance as they navigate their journey in the store that day.
7.
The faucet drips, drips, drips.
Years ago, when SLAUGHTERHOUSE wore costumes that cost more than a little boy could conceive of, he stood at the top of a mountain of his own creation and saw all the fruits of his labor.
SLAUGHTERHOUSE never strayed from his path. He knew he was meant for something great even when he was young. He didn’t let them cajole him into flimsy storylines, he sculpted his body with his own two hands, he was the last one standing in the ring at the end of the day.
He held the championship belt. Even when they took it away from him, SLAUGHTERHOUSE didn’t stop being a champion. When they paraded his face and name on the news and tried to drag him through the mud, SLAUGHTERHOUSE didn’t stop being a champion.
“Five minutes,” says the man at the door.
SLAUGHTERHOUSE looks into the mirror. The faucet drips. A champion looks back.
SLAUGHTERHOUSE was his idea. They wanted him to play a villain, a conqueror, someone to sneer at: but they underestimated his grit, tenacity, power. He conquered. He turned SLAUGHTERHOUSE into something more than cliches and bedazzled fabric. Something none of them could see coming. Something they tried to take from him, just like they tried to take his belt. He backs away.
“There aren’t exactly rules in the same way as there are in the actual leagues,” says the man, as they trek through the hallway. “They talk to you about that?”
The man doesn’t understand, just like how none of them understand. SLAUGHTERHOUSE had the right to ride his own success. SLAUGHTERHOUSE created his own success.
“Well, right,” says the man. He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket. “Pay is based on how long you can last in the ring. Safeword is keycard when you want to tap out. And just to reconfirm,” he says, “we’re not liable for any injuries you might sustain in the ring. They've been without a match for a bit because of an incident with one of their... competitors, so the crowd's probably gonna be a little roudy.”
The 80s would have been nothing without SLAUGHTERHOUSE. He made the scene what it was. There was a reason his broadcasts were always the most popular, why the articles they wrote about him were always the most popular, why they invested so much into his downfall. Everyone in the fucking league.
“...right,” says the man. They’re nearly to the main room. He can hear the thrum of the crowd. “Go get ‘em, then.”
SLAUGHTERHOUSE rolls out his neck. He flexes his arms; he prowls around the ring like the predator that he is. This ring is different than the one that he once championed, wire cage and hissing lights. It is no matter. He will take his title soon enough.
An announcer says: “We’ve got a special guest tonight, folks. You might recognize him as one of the former stars of the NJPW!”
On the other side of the ring, imposing cage doors part; through murky shadows, SLAUGHTERHOUSE hears guttural chirping and metal grating against metal. A shape comes into the light, writhing and screeching and chomping.
“Don’t let that spandex fool you, folks. We’re in for a treat tonight. If you'll please give a warm welcome to Nursie, our resident Medicine Devil. This is a first for her, too, so she might be a little shy. We want a good, clean match today, don't we? ”
They’re holding the thing back with chains. It is a mass of flesh and needles; SLAUGHTERHOUSE is a mass of flesh and determination. He knows how to be flesh, just as much as he knows how to be a champion.
“Let it loose, folks!”
8.
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9.
Regiane is on the floor when Kazu gets back. The window’s propped open even if it isn’t doing much; the fumes strike her immediately. She's sore enough as it is. The sight of Regiane hunched before her canvas leaves her even sorer.
“Cláudio?” she says, kicking off her shoes.
“Still out,” Regiane says, voice a mutter. She always goes somewhere else when she’s painting. It might be the fumes.
She pads over to the fridge. She peeks inside even though it’s probably no use. Kazu takes a few steps to stand behind Regiane.
The canvas is huge. She sometimes wonders how she got it into the apartment. An old tarp that Kazu snagged from work is shoved underneath it to catch any dripping paint. Regiane is sitting today, but sometimes she gets back to find her standing, or leaning against a chair, or ignoring it altogether.
“What’d bossman say?” Regiane says, creating thin, delicate lines across the canvas with reddish brown paint.
“The extra hours are no problem. You’re redoing this part?”
“Changing,” she says. “Not redoing.”
“Right. When’s your brother coming back?”
“Who knows.” She sets down her brush and looks up at her. “You need to clean up.”
Regiane has freckles that gather around her eyes and her shoulders. She was born in Brazil, in the same region that her mother was; her father’s family had moved to Bahia when he was a child, but her mother had been a local.
She doesn’t like it here. She was fourteen when they came back over. Regaine talks to her about the coast often, and Kazu tells her that they can always take a train to the coast if she wants to. She asks her with what money, and then she says, it’s not the same, you nearsighted woman.
Kazu can’t exactly say that she likes it here, either. The apartment would barely be large enough for one person, let alone her, Regiane, Regiane's canvases, and Regiane's brother, even if Cláudio spends most of his time out doing whatever it is he does.
She says, "No shit." Kazu wouldn’t choose warehouse work, either, but she’s fine at it, and it pays decently enough. People always want shit when shit's constantly getting destroyed. “You wanna join me?”
Regiane picks up her brush. “When you’re clean. I’d rather not give a show for free.”
The bathroom is off from the hallway and shared between them and their neighbors. This also isn’t ideal.
“We can charge,” Kazu says, crouching. She brushes a strand of hair away from Regiane's neck.
“I’m too expensive.”
“I’m not?”
The paint is darker this time—blue. “No,” she says. “I think Cláudio’s seeing that friend of his again. The troublesome one.”
“They’re all bad.”
“You know the one I’m talking about.”
Kazu scratches her chin. “Well, we’ll see.” Cláudio’s friends are more stupid than nefarious, which is just as bad, maybe.
Cláudio’s a good enough kid; he's just bad at saying no. It gets him into all sorts of shit he shouldn't be dabbling in. It doesn't help that he's a terrible liar, and that Regiane has the ability to sniff out whenever he's been somewhere he shouldn't be.
“Go,” Regiane says.
She stands. Her knees ache. “Fine,” she says.
She takes a look back when she’s back to the door.
Kazu doesn’t get her art. She’s never said this out loud explicitly, but she knows that Regiane knows, and she knows that Regiane doesn’t care. It’s always something with robots or cyborgs or vortexes or powerlines or faces that are distorted to the point of not being faces anymore. Something viscous usually weighs the whole thing down. Blood, maybe oil. She can never get anyone to buy them. No, in fact, she has a bad habit of pitching things once they're finished. Kazu rummages through the dumpster to salvage the ones they can afford to fit inside the apartment.
Regiane doesn’t believe in god, even if she always thumbs at her mother’s rosary while she works. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think her work to be religious.
("Robots," she once asked. She thinks they were both naked. "Why robots?"
Head resting on her chest, Regiane told her, “I just find it interesting who gets to be a person.")
Regiane says, “While you wash your hair, maybe you can imagine what I’ll be wearing when you get back.”
10.
The children form a short, wobbly line behind the fence’s enclosure. Hiroji watches them with disinterest. They’re young—still in the early stages of elementary school, and showing it through their wide eyes and endless questions. Ken prefers it when they send some of the high school kids down because apparently, city girls are a whole lot different than the ones at their school. It’s not like Hiroji notices these things.
Pa is telling the kids all about what the swine like to eat. The pigs squeak and oink and whine, and the children watch, transfixed. Their teacher—young, pretty, and with a haircut that Ken would describe as a yuppie’s—smiles and nods along.
Hiroji sighs, kicks off from the wall he was leaning on, and exits the barn. He’s sure that Pa is watching him go, but like a lot of things nowadays, he just can’t bring himself to care. It’s not like Pa would let him do the tours even if Hiroji wanted to, which he doesn’t.
He could go for a smoke, but Ma’s always lingering around the place when the kids visit, and the last thing he needs is her on his hide, either. Ken would probably risk it still, but he’s not here today. He’s stuck picking up his older brother’s work at their place across town since the guy sprained his ankle. He complained about it all afternoon at school yesterday.
He chooses to just walk. Pa always gets on him for that, too. Walkin’ with no direction in mind. Hiroji doesn’t know what the problem is. Sometimes it’s just good to walk. They live far enough outside of the main part of town that he rarely has to deal with cars on the road, either.
The program that brings the kids to their farm is through that devil Public Safety unit or something. They do it to other farms in Ichikai—and throughout the country too, he knows, because he’s read about it in the newspaper.
Apparently, it’s a part of this whole program to try to acclimate children to all different types of environments to make the world less scary, or something. There was the whole thing with the Cattle Devil a decade or so ago that kickstarted this particular plank of the policy.
Hiroji finds the pigs annoying more than anything, so the idea that they could make someone scared enough to manifest into some violent thing seems silly to him. Pa likes doing the work well enough even if he hates the government.
There’s supposed to be someone coming from the agency that day at some point to talk about program revisions or something or other. Hiroji doesn’t really know. He likes to think about places outside of here more vaguely. He thinks if he gave them too many defined shapes, they’d look just as dreary as the town around him.
Maybe it’s easier that way: to just pretend like the places that aren’t here are better than here.
He knows that a lot of things have changed in the past year. It’s not like they’re untouchable or anything. A girl in his class talked about a cousin of hers whose entire block of apartment buildings literally disappeared without a trace overnight.
Hiroji’ll probably make himself sparse when the suits come to visit, too, because as much as Pa likes the extra cash and the tours, it doesn’t totally ease out his edges when having to talk to bureaucrats. It’ll probably be unbearable to listen to. Maybe he’ll hole himself away in the shed.
He walks some more. And he still wants a cigarette. And he only notices someone behind him when he’s closer to home than not.
If the boy was following him for long, Hiroji certainly didn’t hear it. He’s wearing a yuppie suit, even if it clashes with a haircut that Ma would hate. Hiroji doesn’t recognize him even if he looks to be about the same age.
He’s pretty. Ken also says that city boys are pretty, too, but it’s always a little sharper, a little meaner, a little pointed. Ha. You see that, Hiro?
(Hiroji just nods when he says that, too, even if he might notice these things a little better.)
The boy smiles. “Hello,” he says, with a smooth, cloying tone. “I’m looking for the Toda farm?”
Hiroji watches him. The boy keeps smiling.
He jerks his head in the direction that he’s been walking. He keeps walking. He doesn’t wait. He doesn’t hear the footsteps start up, but he does notice when the boy steps in line with him.
“Going to the same place, then?” the boy says.
Hiroji grunts.
“The landscapes around here are quite nice to look at,” the boy says. “I’ve heard that the air is cleaner out here.”
Hiroji grunts.
The boy, at least, seems to shut up, even if he does so with a pleasant and needless hmm.
Eventually, Hiroji says, “You’re young.”
The boy says, “Oh?”
Hiroji says, “My Pa calls guys like you dogs.” He says, “You’re young to be a dog.”
Maybe it’s normal for high schoolers to be government workers in the cities. Maybe he’s not actually a teenager. Ken says that there’s this variety show host who’s a clone or been alive forever or something.
The boy doesn’t say anything. At least not for a second. Hiroji glances over at him; the boy meets his eye and smiles again. He has a beauty mark close to his mouth.
“Does your family enjoy their work?” is what the boy says.
He doesn’t have the patience to deal with the clear change in subjects or the fact that the boy obviously knows who he is. It should be kind of creepy, but maybe the suit gives him powers of knowing everything or something.
“‘S fine,” Hiroji says, looking back ahead. “My old man likes it.”
“And you?”
“It matter?”
The boy says, “Just making conversation.”
“It’s fine,” Hiroji says again. “So is it endin’ or something?” The well’ll dry up eventually, probably. He thinks it’s dumb that they were getting paid for this stuff in the first place. What’s a few farm tours gonna do?
“Why would you think that?” the boy asks.
“Well, is it?”
“No. I'm just here to see how things are developing.”
Hiroji shrugs. “Well, don’t know why you couldn’t have just called, then. Not much to see.”
The boy doesn’t say anything.
And then the boy says: “It’s good.” He says: “For us to remember what we’re working for.”
A gust of wind rustles at his hair. Agawa-san, their neighbor, likes to put up pinwheels on the fences that run alongside some of the roads here. They twirl and gleam.
What a sad fucking guy. Hiroji hates feeling pity.
He asks, “Do you always avoid answering questions?”
The boy gives another hmm. He can see the farm, now. Pa’s probably onto showing the kids the silo. Ma always gets on him about how ramshackle that thing looks. God forbid it ever actually fell apart one day.
“I saw some shrines by the river,” the boy says.
Hiroji grunts.
“It was peaceful,” the boy says.
Hiroji grunts.
“You might just take it for granted, is all I’m saying.”
Tell me about how much your life sucks, Hiroji says, only he actually says, “My Pa’s probably finishing up with some of the kids who are visiting. You don’t want to talk to my Ma alone. You can stay by the entrance if you want.”
“Not going to offer to show me around?” the boy says.
Now Hiroji looks at him. The boy is still smiling like nothing is wrong. He’s taller than Hiroji, and his head tilts to the side while talking. They’re close enough that Hiroji can see these little dots on his ears—piercing holes or something. Go figures.
“I could leave here if I wanted,” Hiroji says.
“If you wanted,” the boy says.
“My friend would call you pretty,” he says.
“Oh,” the boy says, the corner of his mouth curving. “And you?”
Hiroji starts walking again. Maybe it was for the best that Ken didn’t come over today. “You’ll still want to avoid Ma,” he says, not waiting for the boy to keep up.
11.
“THE REPLAY NEWS RADIO SHOW” — November 29th, 1998
TRANSCRIPT:
[Intro music starts]
RURI: You might know her as the mysterious beauty taking the devil-hunting world by storm, or the figurehead of the rapidly growing Chainsaw Man Church; but today, we’ve got Mitaka Asa in the studio to talk about another hobby entirely, if you can believe it. [pause] Mitaka-kun—can I call you that?
MITAKA: I guess.
RURI: Well, welcome, welcome. We’re happy to have you on.
MITAKA: Yes.
RURI: Rumor on the street is that you’re interested in poetry, Mitaka-kun. Is that the case?
MITAKA: Yes.
RURI: Man! How do you find the time?
MITAKA: I look for it.
[Ruri laughs.]
RURI: Clever. I bet your writing is just as clever. Now talk to me about how all of this started.
MITAKA: I’ve always enjoyed writing. I wrote before I ever started doing my other work. I think poetry is more refined than prose and requires more discipline. It’s all about making the most out of words in a constrained space. It isn’t to say that prose is an inept medium, just that poetry offers me more of a challenge while also being a more natural avenue for my thoughts. I try to keep a journal on me at all times to write down stray lines as they come to me, as it’s very annoying when I forget them.
RURI: Wow! Cool! What’s the weirdest devil you’ve ever killed?
MITAKA: They’re all gross.
RURI: [laughing] Haha, I bet. Can fans expect to see some of that poetry in the future?
MITAKA: Yes, some of it. I’m working with a publisher at the moment. [pause] So what if those are in it?
RURI: What?
MITAKA: Nothing, sorry. Yes. [pause] They can expect it next year.
RURI: And can you give us a teaser?
MITAKA: No. Well—you’ll have to wait. [pause] Wait. Don’t—
[Mitaka pauses.]
RURI: Everything alright?
MITAKA: Yeah. The poetry is going to be rather embarrassing.
RURI: Oh?
MITAKA: Yes. Needlessly so. I’m still looking for Chainsaw Man.
RURI: You’re very dedicated to your work, we know! Replay News is proud to be a sponsor of the Chainsaw Man Church and its affiliates.
MITAKA: I’ll find him. The real one. If you're listening to this, I shall smite you off of the face of this earth. [pause] We get it, yes. Sorry. I. [pause] That was a verse of mine. As you said. A teaser.
RURI: What a treat! That’s been Mitaka Asa, folks. Keep an eye out for that poetry book of hers as the New Year approaches—but we’re sure you’ll see her in the news before then!
[outro music]
12.
Banri can hear his own breath. He can only hope that no one else can hear it. It’s a desperate, wanting hope, because holy fuck, he is so majorly boned if someone can. And by boned, he means straight up dead.
He’s managed to squeeze himself beneath the ring during the chaos. Banri lays flat on his stomach, pressed against the concrete and with a hand clutched to his mouth. There’s some sort of curtain thing hanging around the ring itself, meaning that he can see three pairs of shoes through the sliver of light that peeks in between it and the floor.
Breathe, don’t breathe. His hand smells like metal. He’s gonna say that and not what it really smells like because he can’t really afford to freak the fuck out right now.
The room is silent. Too silent. Silent enough to hear him, until:
“I don't like this.”
Banri doesn’t jump. He doesn’t. He listens and he’s not even really there.
“Oh, come off it,” says the other voice. It’s kind of cheery and full-throated in a way that reminds Banri of his grandfather. “It’ll be fine.”
“There are,” says the first voice, “more bodies than we anticipated.”
“It’ll be fine,” says the other voice again, and then a pair of feet starts to move.
Banri wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place. He’s supposed to be visiting his brother, who’s in college here. He technically is, yeah, but Mom doesn’t really know that Akito dipped out of classes like, forever ago, and that he mostly just dicks around in the city, now, and that Banri was also coming to dick around.
Akito was the one who had tickets to this thing tonight, even if he ended up skipping cuz his girlfriend or whatever didn’t want him to go. She doesn’t like the gore, apparently. Akito had waved around the tickets and said, you want ‘em, you got ‘em, bro, even though he was probably blazed out of his mind and not thinking straight since usually, he’d charge him for stuff like this. Since he’s kind of a cock.
“So who was this guy supposed to be?” he hears, and it’s because those feet are suddenly a whole lot closer to the ring that Banri flinches, and not because he’s thinking above whatever they must be talking about.
There is a pause. Then the first voice says, “Former professional. He was big in the 80s."
“Oh, I think I remember. Got busted for gambling on himself, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, shit. Look how the mighty fucking fall. Looks like ground beef,” says the other voice, and Banri doesn’t flinch again.
He knew he shouldn’t have gone. He knew shit like this was the exact sort of thing that Mom bemoaned and bemoaned about. But it just seemed—cool, maybe? It was the type of thing that you saw in movies. The only fights that he had ever seen were shitty, stupid ones done by the neighborhood kids.
And Banri thought— well—
They made it seem like the guy had a chance. He knows jack shit about wrestling, but he looked legit. Definitely roided up or something, with a freaky name and face to match. But then they brought that thing out—that thing with some cutesy little name—Nursie what the fuck is that about—and it just—
It tore him to pieces. He lasted 92 seconds and managed to get it in a headlock with an arm that was partially torn off of his body, bone and muscles and everything exposed. Bile churns at the back of his throat.
(This was a record, apparently. Banri knows because of the way the guy sitting next to him had whistled when the announcer blasted his time.)
The first voice says, “We’re looking at seventeen, including Reno.”
“We knew things could get hairy,” says the other voice, while backing away from the ring, at least.
“Hairy,” repeats the first voice.
“Here’s out I see it.” Banri hears the flick of a lighter. The next words are muffled, spoken around something: “We caught wind of an illegal ring that was using devils for their own entertainment. We tried our best to contain the issue, but there’s only so much that you can do when a devil gets loose in a crowd.”
Banri doesn’t know exactly when the cops—that's what they are, right?—first got to the ring, but he does know when people started flipping out. He was in the process of trying to shoulder his way through the crowd so that he could leave before the next match started. That’s probably the only reason why he’s alive.
He knows that someone yelled out something or other about cops, and he knows when bodies collided against his own in a scramble to get away, and he knows when they released that thing—that thing with all of the teeth, that thing with needles for fingers and eyes—into the crowd—
“We went to confront the guy in charge of this place. Tried to de-escalate. He was clearly high off his ass on something and unleashed his dog onto the people here to try to get away. Poor guy ended up getting chewed up himself.”
The first voice says, “Some devil, to leave such clean wounds.”
“It’s not like anyone’s looking. We dispatched the devil and wrangled up whatever guys we could find.”
“Seventeen people—”
“These aren’t people.” The other voice laughs, full-bellied and warm. "Bunch of junkies and freeloaders up to no good. You think anyone’s going to look too closely into what happens here?”
He sees a foot poke at— at something. At a thing. At a body. The other voice is standing specifically so as to not touch the pool of blood and gunk coalescing on the floor. He leans over and snags something from—the body. It’s a something that rustles and catches in the light.
“Oh shit, look at this,” the other voice says. “Pills. One less dealer on the street. Foreigner, too. Hey,” he says, “I think he’s one of yours.”
There is silence.
The other voice says, “Well. Take a look. Seem familiar?”
Another pause.
“Come on. Don’t be shy.”
And a third voice says, “No.”
Banri’s heart thud thud thuds in his ears, ricocheting through him from the inside out.
He saw that devil when it was let loose. People became parts, the world became his mother’s stained tablecloth, insides became outsides. It’s not just coming from his hand; there’s an odor sinking into his skin that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to wash off.
Banri saw that devil, and he also saw the one that killed it. Even if it looked like a person, even if it held a blade with hands and not claws; he saw the monster that killed a monster in a single second. Easy as swatting away a fly.
The other voice laughs again. “Maybe he’s a cousin or something.”
The monster says, “Maybe.”
“Is that the story that we’re going with, then?” the first voice says.
“Don’t be so terse. It’ll all work out fine,” the other voice says. “We’ll get a clean-up crew in here, we’ll get our guys booked and transferred, and we’ll make sure that everyone has the same story. Guy in charge of here just lost it.
“It is a shame, though.” The other voice says, “I liked Reno. I think we had a good deal going. Maybe we worked something out, in another world.”
“Your taste in philosophy continues,” says the first voice.
The other voice laughs. “Alright, let’s clear out.”
He just needs to be quiet. He just needs to stop breathing. It sounds like more people are going to be coming in, but maybe he can sneak out in between. Because even though these guys sound like they are the cops in question, a bone-deep paralysis keeps him from moving, from asking for help, from making himself known.
Banri’s not gonna pretend he knows what they’re talking about, but he knows it’s not something he should hear, probably. He’ll go home, he’ll spit on Akito, and he’ll pretend that he was never here.
He tries to ease out some of that tension in his body—tries to remember to feel again—and it’s probably a mistake, because Banri’s body twitches, and brushes against the scaffolding just above him, and something creaks.
He’s fine. He’ll be fine. He’s not even there.
The first voice says, “What was that?”
He’s really, actually, fully fine—
The other voice says, “What?”
“There was a noise. From the ring.”
“You’re being paranoid.”
“I’m being careful. Did we check beneath it?”
“Bah,” says the first voice. “You’re going to look older than me, at this rate. It’s good to let loose once and a while. When’s the last time you went on holiday?”
“I’m—”
“Fine. Go. Check it out.”
Footsteps. Towards him.
Banri has a lot of regrets. He’s young. He regrets not telling his uncle to fuck off with his dumb jokes about Banri's haircut, and he regrets not skeeving off more in class, and he regrets not asking to see if Michimiya from down the road was serious or just joking about giving him a handjob.
He hates his brother for giving him those tickets and his brother's girlfriend for not being convincing enough to get him to stay. He hates the stupid pro wrestler who got himself stupidly killed. Banri’s about to die.
Banri’s about to die, and he realizes this, entire body trembling, as he catches sight of a monster’s shoes directly in front of him.
The curtain thing is pulled up. Light pierces his eyeballs. The scent, if possible, gets even stronger.
The monster is crouching in front of him. The monster is looking at him. The monster looks like a woman, with soft, pale hair and an eye patch. He wonders what’s under it. Something that could eat him alive, probably.
The monster is covered in blood, the blood of a devil, and maybe something more, something that’s on her sword, too, and the monster is still looking at him.
The monster says, “There’s nothing.”
The curtain thing falls back into the place. Footsteps walk away.
“There,” says the other voice. “Are you happy?”
“You’re sure?” says the first voice.
“Yes,” the monster says.
“You—”
“Now don’t be like that,” says the other voice. “I’ve got a good little soldier here. Aren't you, sweetheart.” He continues, “Now, that holiday I was talking about. Have you been up North? Nothing like a good ski resort.”
Their voices begin to fade with distance. He hears something drip drip dripping. And it's a pipe, probably. Yeah. Definitely.
13.
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<ARCHIVED POST>
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Subject: Has anyone thought of this before
By tanin301987 on 1997 August 20th, at 3:08AM
I understand why there are devils around things like fears and moles because those are pretty messed up and a lot of people are afraid of them but dont really get why theres a dog devil. My friend was talking to me about it because apparently there was an attack but they dont know if it was actually the dog devil or something else. I also dont know would there be differences in breeds? Like is there a wolf devil but also a yorkie devil. I don’t know
I feel like a society that lives with things born out of fear can only live in fear and it makes me wonder why things were built this way. I read this thing once about this society that would worship all the things they once feared to try to prevent devlis from being born but it just made them stronger. So i guess its like is it fear that makes them or do we just decide to name it that bc thats the easiest way to rationalize it i guess.like for every person that hates something or is scared of it theres probably someone who loves it. this old lady on my street growing up we all thought she was crazy and talking to herself but there was actually a devil living in her attic and. She straight up died after they took it out of there and i think It was from loniliness and we all kinda assumed that taking that thing out helped her but it was clearly her only friend
Anyways heres a picture of my dog
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Subject: RE: Has anyone thought of this before
By wan.wan on 1997 August 20th, at 3:42 AM
> I feel like a society that lives with things born out of fear can only live in fear and it makes me wonder why things were built this way.
While you present interesting points here (I am particularly compelled by your historical anecdote, as that's a favorite story of mine), it is perhaps in our best interest to understand that there is a natural cycle to these things that simply—as it stands—exists outside of our control. The birth and rebirth of devils happen in the same way as it does for humans, and in the same way that an ecosystem consumes itself, and in the same way that prolific suffering occurs every day: not for any particular meaning, but just because it is, or because some have an invested interest in ensuring this is the case. So long as we exist within those boundaries, it isn’t necessary to debate the source of these things, given that a) no answer can be satisfyingly found and b) no answer will change our current reality, given that the boundary itself is the problem.
Presumably, most people who fear dogs will fear dogs as a concept as opposed to a single breed.
Your dog has a very pleasing coat pattern. What is its name?
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14.
Back then, when she sat on that squeaky vinyl couch and dug crevices into her palms with her nails, her manager said, "It's the natural cycle of these things."
It was said with pity. Kimi hates pity most of all. It reminds her of being a kid. Poor, poor Kimi, with her poor, sick mother, and her poor, worthless shoes.
“But,” was what said, and she sat up even taller. “But I was told I had at least until I was in my twenties. And then you’d help me switch lanes, too.”
Kimi has always liked being an idol. She likes wearing the nice clothes and the shiny makeup. She’s never been much of a singer, but they told her when she was starting out that it was part of the allure. People would be invested in her growth, and she had a lot of growing to do.
She knows that most idols aren’t idols forever, and she’s okay with that. She’s always thought that she’d make a pretty good actress. Or model, maybe. Her photobooks have sold well since she first debuted.
But her manager told her, “Plans change.” He’s always wearing the exact same gray suit. She sometimes thinks he has seven different suits for each day of the week. He had been wearing that suit when they met. “The company has to think for all of its employees and not just you, Kimi.” She remembers that he shook his head. “We’ll host a graduation ceremony. Your very own.”
“But the other girls—”
“You already wanted to go solo, didn’t you?” There was something disapproving about his gaze, then. Kimi has never met her own father, but she imagines that was what it feels like to be chewed out by one. “Think of this as the opportunity that you were wanting. We’re just trying to look out for you.”
And Kimi said, “Can you even do this…?”
She didn't think she had done anything to warrant being kicked out then, and she doesn’t think she’s done anything to warrant being kicked out, now. Because that’s what this all feels like. She's always maintained a good image, she's always tried her best on stage, she's always practiced speaking in the mirror each night even though management always said that her occasional lisp is, was, endearing. Not endearing enough, apparently.
But the manager told her, “Oh, Kimi. Did you even read your contract?”
“Yes,” she told him, and she—well, she did, but she had also signed that contract when she had just started high school, and reading had never been her strong suit.
She looked down at her hands. The polish was blue. Poor, poor Kimi.
“So is there a new junior, then?” she asked him. “Replacing me.”
And her manager told her, “Oh, yes. You’ll get a chance to meet her soon.”
And for some reason, Kimi asked him, “Is she like me?”
When she asked it then, that would have been the thing to hurt the most. A girl that looked just like her, that talked just like her, that had just as much room to grow. She couldn't even think of anything worse.
Eventually, tone careful, her manager told her, “We’re following some recent trends.” And then he said, “I’m sure you’ll be excited to meet her.”
They've dressed her up in a sea-foam green tulle gown that glimmers under the hot, oppressive lights and sticks to her sweat. She's always liked a color like this one. It matches her skin's undertones. Some part of her is always nauseous when she's on stage. When she first started, her seniors told her it was just nerves, and that they'd go away with time.
Maybe it should have been a sign. Sea-foam green nerves, wrangling for control of her gut.
Kimi dances, she poses, she waves, she sings. The manager told her to enjoy this. She was never the one that all of the lights pointed to: not like they do today. She should enjoy this. She should be happy with this. They've combined her graduation concert with some sort of sponsored event; a sea of proper suits and ties watch her every move.
There’s a moment where she’s twirling centerstage, center of attention, something that she’s dreamed of the moment the manager found her and said, you have a lot of potential.
She catches sight of her members around her as the song comes to a close. Yui is focused on catching her breath and Misaki who’s never liked her still doesn’t seem to like her now and Sakiko is smiling brilliantly in a way that Kimi is still jealous of.
Someone else joins in the spotlight next to her. Kimi can’t help but look over, even if she still has to hide her flinch.
Apparently, all fiends have something wrong with their heads to let you know that they’re fiends. They call this one Mimi. Or it—she—calls herself that. Kimi doesn’t know if it has a different, official name; her mother never let her watch any of the specials on devils.
Mimi has a mouth that takes up the entire bottom portion of her face. She has more teeth than the average human does. It’s like something is permanently wedged into the joint to keep her jaw slightly open, and her pupils always seem to be moving just a little too quickly. Her hair flounces around her scalp like metallic floss.
Her powder pink costume is riddled with specks of glitter. She lifts up a hand and waves it to the crowd, who seem to cheer even louder.
She’s a popular junior, apparently.
Back then, back at that meeting on that vinyl couch, when Kimi didn’t even have it in her to say a final But— Can you even— her manager stood, sighed, and gave her a meaningful once over that left her fingers twitching over the line her skirt created across her thighs.
He took a seat next to her. The couch squeaked some more.
“There are plenty of fans,” he said, in the same way he had said you have plenty of potential, “who would be willing to follow you into… different avenues.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “You’re a very cute girl, Kimi.”
In front of her, the crowd roars with glee. The green brings out the warmth in her skin, and she feels the crowd prying it away from her, wanting, desiring, leaving her feverish and dizzy.
15.
“There once was a giraffe,” reads Takashi, “with a heart-shaped dot on its face.
“This giraffe was not the tallest, and he was not the shortest, but he was the only giraffe in his family with a heart-shaped dot on its face. Not even the giraffe’s parents or brother or sister had a heart-shaped dot. Each night before he went to bed, the giraffe’s mother would tell him that the dot represented alllll of the love the giraffe brought into the world when he was born.
“The giraffe was very excited to go to giraffe school like his siblings did. Giraffe school was where you learned all the important things that giraffes needed—like geometry and biology and music. The giraffe’s mother walked the giraffe on his first day of school and kissed him right on his heart-shaped dot.
“The giraffe was nervous and excited to make friends. He imagined all of the giraffe things he’d get up to with his giraffe friends. But when the giraffe tried to introduce himself to his classmates, the worst thing in the world happened.”
“‘Why,’ said one of his classmates, ‘is there a dot on your head that’s shaped like a heart?’ ‘Well,’ said the giraffe, ‘my mother says that it’s because of all the love I was born into the world with.’ ‘Well,’ said his classmate, ‘I don’t have a heart on my face.’ And the giraffe’s other classmates laughed. ‘Yes,’ they said. ‘You don’t look like us.’
“The giraffe raced home that day with tears in his eyes. Oh, he hated that heart-shaped dot on his face! He dreamed that night of only having smooth, round dots like his mother and his father and his brother and his sister and his classmates. Why, oh why did he have to be born with that dot?
“At school the next day, when they were assigning cleaning duties, the teacher asked if anyone wanted to help to sweep the ground. One of the giraffe’s classmates pointed his way. ‘He would love to do it,’ his classmate said, and others laughed. Their teacher said, ‘Oh? Why is that?’
“‘Well,’ said his classmate, ‘haven’t you seen his face?’ The teacher said, ‘You do have a heart-shaped dot on your face, don’t you!’ The giraffe felt his face heat up. Why, oh why, oh why! But his teacher said, ‘I have a heart-shaped dot on my calf! Didn’t you know? My mother always told me it was because of allll the love I was born into the world with.’
“The giraffe's classmates couldn’t believe it! ‘I want a heart-shaped dot!’ one said. ‘No, me!’ another said. The teacher winked at the giraffe, and when the giraffe went home that day, he gave the biggest hug to his mother that he could muster. The end.”
Takashi closes the book.
Ai says, “Theeeee end.”
“Did I do the voices right?” Takashi says.
Ai nods. “I think so. Your teacher voice could be more teacherly.”
“Noted,” Takashi says, rising from the edge of the bed. He flicks off the lamp on the bedside table.
“I like that story,” Ai says, pulling her covers up to her chin.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m even wearing polka-dotted pajamas today, too.”
“It must be fate,” Takashi says.
Ai says, “No. It’s because I chose to wear them!”
Takashi rolls his eyes. “Are you a giraffe, then?”
“Yes. Even if I look like a human. Do you think I have any heart-shaped moles?”
“You’ll have to look.”
Ai yawns. “In the morning,” she says. “I’m glad you were home to read to me. I missed you yesterday.”
“Me too,” Takashi says.
Ai holds out her hand, pointer finger extended. He mirrors the motion; their fingers touch, and Ai’s smile is tinged with warmth and sleep.
“Good night,” she says.
“Good night,” he says.
He throws back a lingering glance before he closes her door. She’s reorganized all of her stuffed animals; according to her, they get jealous if she doesn’t give them attention from time to time.
He finds Yurika reading on the couch in the main room, legs partially folded beneath her. She doesn’t look up when she says, “She was over the moon when she found out you’d be home tonight.”
Takashi watches her. “Did you know our daughter is a giraffe?” he says.
“It’s come up.” She still doesn’t look up.
“The book is cute.” He takes a seat in the armchair closest to her. “It’s new, right?”
“Mmm. From my sister.”
“Should have guessed.” It seems like something she would like.
Yurika sighs. She leans forward to set down her book on the coffee table. He’s close enough to smell her perfume—almond and vanilla, with a flash of citrus.
When she resettles, she finally meets his gaze. She looks much the same as when they first met, if only with a few sprouting gray hairs.
She's smiling.
“Work go well?” she asks.
“Yes,” he says.
She’s still smiling. “That’s good.”
“What is it?” he says.
He watches her. She watches him back. They met at a hiring event that they both left empty-handed; he was the one to invite her out, but she paid for their first round of drinks.
Eventually, she says, “Ai heard something at school this week. About some prophecy.”
He says, “Oh?”
“Apparently, the world’s going to end.”
Takashi’s not in the branch that’s been coordinating intel on Nostradamus, but he knows enough. Especially when most people can see its effects around them, not helped by everything that happened with the Falling Devil back in the spring.
Yurika asks, “Know anything about that?”
“It’s all talk,” he says.
“Really.”
“More fear makes them stronger,” he says, shifting his weight. “That’s exactly what they want. What?”
She shakes her head.
“No,” Takashi says. “What is it?”
“I just— I don’t know.” She laughs. “You talk about them like they’re a party in office or something.”
“It’s not like that.” Takashi says, “It’s all… instinct. They don’t think.”
Only a small proportion of them are actually, truly mindless—and rarely are those ones all that dangerous. Go figure.
“This is what I’m talking about,” is what Yurika says, with a huff. “It’s just—I’m just worried, Takashi. Ai gets worried. With everything going on. I feel like all we talk about these days is devils.”
He says, “It’s Public Safety. Even when it’s just office work.”
“I know,” she says, but there’s a look on her face.
Takashi was working in the policy sector before his transfer to Public Safety. He had plenty of friends in the division, though; it was hard not to when it felt like half of them were contracted under PS as it was.
He says, “Hamasaki thinks I should take a vacation.”
This gets a snort out of her, at least. “Maybe he’s right.”
Hamasaki was the one who coordinated his transfer. Hamasaki’s been in the business for a while. Takashi knows this. Takashi knows that in their line of work, age can actually mean something. He’s slick, despite his age, with nerves of still to match.
And he’s getting comfortable. Too comfortable. He likes his liquor a little too much, and Takashi doesn’t know how his wife doesn’t know about all the women he busies himself with.
The situation with Reno is just an example of that. Reno and his ring were always risky, but the guy was never an idiot. He didn’t try any funny business, either; he gave them their cut of the betting pool, accepted the devils they sent his way, and kept his mouth shut about the whole thing.
Had been smart, maybe. Hamasaki's not the only one who started getting comfortable. They were tipped off when one of the devils they had sent his way got loose—a vague, amphibian-based fear that tore through its handlers and is still MIA as they speak. They think it's taken over a corpse. Reno told them it had been an accident. Takashi took it as a sign to tighten the leash.
Takashi isn’t afraid to deal with business as needed, but it would’ve been nice to keep Reno alive if they could have helped it, even if he was the one to start escalating things when they met in his office. Hamasaki just seemed a little too pleased to sic his pet on the guy.
Sitting before his wife, Takashi says. “Skiing. We could go skiing. No—I’m serious.”
Yurika says, “No, yeah. That sounds lovely. Really. I just—” She sighs. “I feel like I barely find out about your day anymore.”
“You know I can’t—”
“Talk about your work, right. That doesn’t make me feel better, by the way.” She says, looking at him with the same eyes that met his across that bar, during that first drink, “You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”
“Most of what I do,” Takashi says, “is paperwork that would bore you to death. It might be confidential, but it’s still paperwork.”
It was Hamasaki’s idea to cut the devil loose, of course. Need to cover our tracks somehow. He thinks the ring was trying to pass the thing off as the Medicine Devil or something, when in reality it was just some fear of air bubbles or needles or something. Niche and poignant enough to be a bit of a rabid beast during cage matches.
It wasn’t a completely unsound plan, letting it out of its chains. No one would look too closely at the bodies it left behind, and it wasn’t like anyone who managed to escape that night was going to squeal. Not when it’d mean incriminating themselves. Nothing but a completely preventable devil attack.
Still. It was messy. It felt like there was too much that could go wrong. Hamasaki claimed that their work required a certain amount of faith in things to go their way.
“You say that,” Yurika says, “but it just feels like everything’s so— fucked.”
No one’s raised any concerns about Reno. There was a brief story about it on the news, but true to Hamasaki’s word, it mostly sensationalized the ring itself. He caught Yurika watching it in the morning with a frown. Pretty sick stuff, she said, before turning the channel to a variety show.
He’s looked into a few of their loose ends, and it’s mostly what Hamasaki anticipated. An anarchist who frequented local circles, some Brazilian kid who came in with that 1990 act—there was a corporate banker who got caught in the crossfire that could be cause for concern, but evidently he had a habit of frequenting less than savory environments, so no one would be too suspicious.
“I know,” Yasuaki says. “A lot of it’s fucked. And I’m sorry,” he says, “that I’ve been distant.” He reaches across to grab her hand. “But I’m here.”
She looks skeptical, but she doesn’t pull away. “You say that,” she says.
“And I’ll act on it, too,” he says, and he tugs. “Come on.”
“You can’t tempt me,” she says, but there’s laughter in her voice. He tugs until she’s settled onto his lap, her fingers finding the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’m serious,” she says, voice a murmur against his own. “I worry for you.”
His hand settles on the small of her back. “I know,” he says. “But it’ll be alright.”
Hamasaki isn’t an issue for now, technically. But he doesn’t want to rely on faith alone—especially not if things are going to keep escalating. Getting that hybrid on his personal payroll isn’t helping, either, even if she’s startlingly efficient. He can never get a good read on her.
They’ll have her in their pocket as long as they have those fiends under lock and key. Hamasaki calls it depraved, and Takashi can’t say that he disagrees.
At least she gives us a view, is what Hamasaki says, and Takashi doesn’t disagree, either, even if the hybrid’s a bit outside of his usual tastes. Wild card she might be, it'd be nice if he could find a way to keep her around even when getting Hamasaki out of the picture.
Another day. He’ll figure it out later. Preferably after they figure out all of this shit with that bizarre teenage cult.
He plants a kiss along Yurika’s jaw. “It’ll all be fine,” he says.
16.
Dear Komogawa-san,
I’m sure you get letters like these all of the time. Since you’re so cool and famous. I bet it’s really hard being that cool and famous all of the time, but I know you can handle it since you’re so good at everything. So please don’t read that as me thinking that you can’t do it or anything.
Your most recent record was really a work of art. I admire your songwriting ability and your dancing. I’m not a very good dancer, but I feel inspired when I watch you. Not to compare my bad dancing with your good dancing. I just think that a lot of people look up to you, including me, and I know it’s because you’re just that good of a person.
I don’t know if you’ve heard of it before, but I’m a part of a cool organization that also has some pretty cool people, and I think you all would get along a lot. I’ve attached a pamphlet that we hand out with this letter. You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to. I bet you’re really busy. That isn’t me doubting your abilities at all; I bet if you wanted to do everything in the world in a single day, you’d be able to. But also I totally get that it’s good to rest too and that you should rest. But only if you want to, of course. As you’re fan, I’ll always be cheering you on either way.
My friends and I would really appreciate your support. Everyone really likes you—and for good reason—so it’d mean a lot of you’d look into our work. I’m really thankful to be your fan. Your music has gotten me through a lot of hard times. I have a lot of siblings, and so sometimes it’s hard to feel special when there are so many people who have like the same face and name as you. But when I listen to your music, it’s like I can tell you’re someone who really cares about her fans and listens.
Anyway, there’s contact information included within that pamphlet if you have any questions. You can respond to this letter too if you want to. My bosses will have more answers than I will, but I’m pretty good at answering questions myself.
With love,
Sincerely,
Have a good day,
Thank you,
Higashiyama Nobana