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She dies in a filthy warehouse, clutching a dog. There are moments of ebbing consciousness as she feels her boy-body be hacked apart. The pain dulls out after the first few minutes — or maybe hours, who even fucking knows? Zombies are mind-numbingly slow at everything. Even murder. The screaming becomes softer. Her voice turns strangled, raw and strange, and too weak in her throat. The blood’s almost cool to touch.
Her chest heaves. At least the blood isn’t an illness, she thinks to herself dizzily. It’s a Something death, at least. A torrid newspaper headline: ORPHAN HACKED TO DEATH BY MAFIA. Not quietly ignominious and unremarkable like disease — or god forbid, hunger.
She hopes they won’t kill Pochita. She can’t feel his warmth anymore — maybe her hands have gone numb, maybe he’s slipped out of her grasp with all the repeated stabbing and that stupid darkness that won’t stop swimming in her eyelids. She inhales and someone — The Old Man — punctures her waiting scream. Maybe Pochita can take over this body she never wanted. Finally be free, be Enough for both of them.
She grabs onto her fading consciousness with a desperation. Please, she croaks. Please, I don’t want to die. The rafters are merciless — they blur into darkness. The grunts of the Yakuza become indistinct background noise.
She dies.
In her dream, Pochita jumps onto her chest — snuggles up to her, and talks about being. She watches with startled eyes as the only one who ever needed her vanishes into light. Wait, she says. Wait.
I’ve heard you talk about Being, Reze. So, Be.
She wakes up in a dumpster, claws at her chest frantically. He can’t be gone, right? She rakes her nails down the flatness of her chest, leaving red, angry marks. She has to — she clutches herself, feels half a sob build up in her throat among that stench of candy wrappers and used condoms. She’ll kill them.
She steps out into the warehouse on shaky feet — the mound of flesh blurs into the Yakuza’s faces in front of her eyes. She doesn’t even care, even as their shouts reverberate through the building and they leap towards her.
Her hand drifts towards her neck — towards the ripcord dangling from it. She pulls, and the world explodes into red.
After it is all over, there is silence and a woman in a trenchcoat, silhouetted in the yawning golden of the doorway.
Reze almost stumbles. Rights herself amidst that awful smell of copper. The woman watches as her chainsaws retract and Reze falls — bloody and panting — to her knees.
In the next few minutes, Reze learns that the woman’s name is Makima and that her coat is warm around Reze’s shivering frame. She learns that to live she has to do two things:
- Work for the Public Safety and
- Listen to everything that the woman says.
And what work will I do? she asks and Makima smiles.
You’ll be useful, won’t you?
She’ll be useful, she thinks to herself as she looks into Makima’s impossibly golden eyes. She will.
The woman’s presence is suffocating. Reze fidgets in the car seat. Looks out the window to gaze at the rolling flatland. She doesn’t speak.
We’ll grab a bite, says Makima as she watches the traffic. They pull into a roadside restaurant and the car powers down.
Their surroundings gleam as the sunrise washes the rickety wooden benches in burnished gold. Letters in the takeaway window spell out FAMILY MEALS, with a drooping Y. Tongue like. Reze doesn’t move until Makima gestures to the door with a sharp jerk of her hand.
It’s cold and empty. A bleary-eyed cook is just pulling down the sign; he straightens to attention as Makima walks up to order. Reze shivers on the bench. She’s bare-chested, her small frame drowned in an overlarge coat. She sniffs its sleeves — it doesn’t have any particular smell. Makima didn’t seem like the type to use perfume anyway. An effortless woman.
A man stumbles into the restaurant. He’s all haggard lines and screaming for his daughter. Her dad used to do that too, didn’t he — with that stench of alcohol and his waiting debt? Screaming the name of a son he never had? Before… her memory eludes her, but she’s focused on the noodle bowls, delicious smells wafting from them, that Makima’s just placed on the table. But the older woman inclines her head and pushes the bowl away from Reze’s hungry eyes. You’re a devil hunter, aren’t you? Go do your job.
And so she does, trudges into the leaves and squints through the brightness of the sun for the devil. It tries some tricks on her, but it doesn’t matter. She watches dispassionately as the screaming child cowers and she shreds the devil to pieces.
Her stomach aches in hunger by the time she’s done so she limps back to the restaurant and deposits the bloodied girl at Makima’s feet.
There, she says. Can I have my noodles now?
Makima’s mouth breaks into a smile. A warm hand ruffles Reze’s hair and she freezes.
Your hair’s quite long, Makima muses. I’ll cut it for you.
No, Reze forces out. Please.
Makima hums, but doesn’t press it — just looks at her with curious eyes. Can you eat?
Reze nods too, too fast.
She’s just starting on her food Makima speaks again. It’s alright if you want to keep it long. A smile. It’s cute.
Reze thumbs the ends of her hair— choppy, shoulder length. If it wasn’t for the blood loss, she’d be blushing. But she grins shyly instead. Thanks.
Makima asks her about Pochita. Reze breaks into conversation animatedly about him, exhilarated by the careful way Makima follows her every word, how she nods at the right places. She reassures her that Pochita isn’t dead, that he’s keeping her heart beating, that he’s alive inside her.
Oh, Reze says. Her eyes sting. She hunches over her noodle bowl, determined not to show weakness.
A hand strokes her back — misleadingly soft. It’s okay, says Makima. It’s okay. A pause.
You’ll be living with me.
There are dogs. Five of them — names she’ll never bother to learn. Makima loves them – there’s a slight crinkling in her eyes as she sets down her keys on the shoe rack to be assailed with their enthusiastic yipping. Reze stands in the shadows behind her, mildly uncomfortable until the woman turns and beckons her in. Make yourself at home.
The next day, she sits behind Makima’s desk as a dark-haired man reports to the woman.
Who’s that? he asks finally, jerking his head at her.
Makima smiles. Public Safety’s latest acquisition. Why don’t you take him out for a run?
She has to take two steps at a time to keep up with Hayakawa’s pace — she leans forward, cranes her neck to get a good look at his face. Are we going to fight a devil?
Hayakawa frowns imperceptibly. We’re patrolling. His voice is clipped.
Oh. Hmm. Okay.
They continue walking in silence – Tokyo’s busy at this time of day; Reze’s eyes dart around, taking in the shops piling up high to the sky on heaving buildings, the hum of business as they near the intersection bustling with people — clothes, new and fashionable with bulging coat pockets — oh! —
A hand catches hers. Give that back. Hayakawa’s voice is stern.
Reze wriggles in his grasp. You spoilsport!
He manoeuvres the wallet out of her fingers and taps a stooping middle-aged man on the shoulder as Reze sulks behind him. You dropped this.
The man looks confused but accepts the wallet back with a mumbled thanks. They move forward.
We are patrolling, Hayakawa hisses at her.
Reze rolls her eyes. And how do we do that again?
By not pickpocketing? Did they not train you at all?
Training? Reze’s confused.
Hayakawa scoffs, but keeps walking.
He beats her up in an alleyway and has the audacity to light up for a smoke afterward. The stench of cigarette smoke fills the air as she groans weakly from the ground. It hurts but she’s taken worse — a quip rises to her mouth easily.
Molesting young things like me in alleyways and smoking too, old man? Scandalous!
Hayakawa takes a step back as if he’s been burned. He’s so straight laced — the expression on his face is priceless enough that she hoots with laughter. But he regains his composure soon enough, says: You’re in it for the paycheck, aren’t you?
Ah, the paycheck. I won’t deny that it piques my curiosity.
Hayakawa scowls, gives her an annoying lecture on how brats like her won’t last long in Public Safety. How she’ll die soon enough. He helpfully describes a few brutal murders, closes off by commenting on the shallowness of her motivations. Reze wants to laugh in his face.
Instead, she gets up, splits her mouth into a savage grin. You think you know what it feels like to die?
Then she knees him in the balls. He goes down like a stone — ha! Guys never expect that — and lies wheezing on the grimy pavement so she crouches over him and whispers sweetly into his ear. Listen here, you idiot. I’ll follow whatever orders you give me but I’ve got to know what to do, yeah?
He opens his mouth but Reze places a finger over his lips and shushes him. I’m just as serious about this as you are. Wrinkles her nose. Maybe not with the whole, she gestures to him in general, emo energy thing, you know. Oh. And the pickpocketing? It’s a habit. A little hard to get rid of if you’ve ever been empty stomached.
She gets to her feet, holds out a hand to him in that alleyway piled with rubbish bags and stink. Do over. Nice to meet you. I’m Reze.
Fuck you, Hayakawa groans but he takes her hand anyway.
The pickpocketing’s a habit?
Drop it, she snaps.
Going well? Makima asks her over dinner.
Reze shrugs. We’ll see.
You don’t know what Fiends are? Hayakawa asks, his eyes unreadable.
She shakes her head. Should I?
They teach you these kinds of things. At school. There’s an unspoken question in his words.
I never went, she says shortly and doesn’t look at him. Had better things to do.
Later, he asks her to use her chainsaws on a fiend – watches them rip out of her skull and scream into being. The apartment’s wallpapered with red – he steps inside, whistles. Shit.
A pause. How old are you? Eighteen?
Sixteen. She spits the blood out of her mouth and laughs. Or something like that. Do child labour laws even apply to devils?
They get food afterwards. The ramen’s slightly uncooked but it’s warm; she cleans out her bowl as Hayakawa watches.
Public Safety’s paycheck… He crosses his arms. Not the first time I’ve heard that reason. But is that all there is to it?
Uh. Reze giggles between gulping down her noodles. Maybe I really liked killing devils?
His eyes narrow. Do you?
Nah, Reze admits, twirling her chopsticks. A pause. I was friends with a devil for a while, she says through a mouthful of broth.
Don’t talk with your mouth full. Aki’s looking at her strangely. He inhales — she can hear air whistle through his teeth. I hate devils.
Reze flashes him a thumbs- up and goes back to eating.
A devil killed my entire family, he says as she’s busy licking her bowl clean.
The bowl clatters onto the table. She looks up, eyes wide. Oh.
He meets her eyes. That’s why I joined. What’s your reason?
A give and take, huh? She shrugs. Makima told me to. And her house’s better than the crapshit I was living in before anyway.
Aki makes an odd noise. You live with her?
Yeah, Reze says cautiously. Watches a light blush erupt on the guy’s face. Oh my god, do you like her?
She erupts into peals of laughter. The LED light flickers — throws his pale face into darkness. Yeah, he says. I do.
I think I have some more spare pillows, Makima says.
No, thanks. I’m comfortable. Reze snuggles deeper into the folds of the sofa. She could never complain.
The sofa sags. Shifts under her. A soft hand cards through Reze’s hair. She closes her eyes and leans into the touch. There’s a warmth to it that she can only bask in.
How was Aki? asks Makima.
Nice, she replies. I think he liked me. A pause. I like him.
Oh? Makima asks and there’s a low tone to her voice, a simmering undercurrent of something that makes Reze open her eyes and look insistently into the other woman’s.
Not like I like you, though. A beat. You’re my favourite.
And Makima smiles.
The next morning, she walks into Makima making something in the kitchen.
Eat up, she says as she places the omelette in front of Reze.
I can cook if you want, Reze says, looking up. I’d hate to be a bother.
Makima’s smile widens. If you insist.
Power is bold and bright colours and a ferocious smile. She talks like she’s feeling each word form in her mouth and fights greedily — tearing apart the devil with a wide-eyed look of triumph, heady with victory.
The crowd forms around the carcass — blank-faced policemen with sticky hands crisscross the body in tape. A neat Label.
Power says that it’s Reze’s fault. She feels an indistinct fear form in her chest as Makima turns to face her. There’s disapproval colouring her eyes. Excuses rise to her lips unconsciously but Makima brushes them away with a shake of her head.
I don’t care whose fault this is. She looks at Reze and she trembles under her gaze. Can you handle this?
A gulp — bitter and metallic — rises up in Reze’s throat. She swallows, feels it scrape against her windpipe — rattle like a scratchy breath in her lungs.
Yeah. I can.
Power huffs, crosses her arms. There’s a tension to her as she turns away from Makima.
I won’t make the mistake of following your orders again, boy! she declares later on their patrol.
Reze kicks the machine and watches a chips packet slump forward and rattle to the bottom of the collection tray. Guess we don’t need money after all.
Did you hear me, boy? Power demands.
Reze looks at her. I’m not a boy.
A quizzical frown as Power cocks her head and Reze hastens to clarify. A girl. I’m a girl.
You humans and your feeble constructs. Power turns up her nose. I hope you heard me then, girl.
Reze’s answering smirk is full of mirth. I’m trying not to.
Later, the pink-haired Fiend gives her a proposition.
I don’t need wishes, Reze says easily. I’ll help you with your cat.
Power grins.
About an hour later when she is bleeding to death in the darkness of an abandoned house, Reze wishes she’d been a bit smarter about it.
Slowly, her body stitches itself back together and then she is snarling, holding onto the Bat Devil’s leg as cold whips through her hair. She drinks in the flummoxed expression on his face as she pulls the cord on her choker and then it is beautiful — all red and screaming until Leech lifts her up into the air and croons as she examines Reze’s face, says: You’re a cute little boy. Her voice is almost a caress albeit with all that spittle. So I’ll forgive you, it continues and Reze spits into its mouth—
I’m not a boy, she growls and the devil bristles, unhinges a jaw glistening with rows of dirty teeth and
she explodes; crumbles in on herself, a gruesomely contorting body; Reze lands on the ground covered in devil entrails — she groans, her joints ache and her arms are missing —
Are you okay? Makima asks. She’s biting her lip, like she’s worried, and Reze’s heart melts.
I’m fine, she says. I’m fine.
Reze never sees Power again.
Her arms regrow remarkably fast. She’s soon free of the numbing sterility that is the hospital and back at Makima’s apartment.
It’s too bad, Makima says from where she is looking through some papers. You got rid of an annoying one, but there’ll be far too much paperwork to deal with tomorrow.
Reze jerks her head up. She’d been sitting cross-legged on the edge of the sofa, examining the odd wholeness of her new limbs. Paperwork?
The other woman straightens a sheaf of papers. It’s pretty late; Reze can see the stars through the glass of the balcony doors. Somehow, they’re more beautiful, more muted than they ever were in the countryside.
I hate paperwork, Makima says finally. Reze stares as the uncharacteristically strong word hovers between them.
Makima’s eyebrows crease for a second before they relax, go back to their usual unreadability. It’s frustrating, she says, to have to go through so many hurdles when you’re trying to do good. She looks at Reze almost expectantly.
I get it, Reze says, although she really, really doesn’t.
Seconds pass. Makima goes back to her papers as Reze focuses on teasing out dirt from between her nails. She punctures skin — bites her tongue as copper blooms under her nail. Papers crinkle. A fly dances around the tube light, buzzing.
One of the dogs sniffles from behind the couch. Another paper crinkle.
The chair scrapes against the ground when she draws it and sits. Makima doesn’t look up from her work.
There’s a slight grain irregularity on the corner of the table’s wood. It gives her something to look at as Makima turns another page.
I’m a girl, Reze says. Her voice doesn’t shake — she stares fixedly at the table.
Oh?
Reze looks up to see Makima’s curious eyes on her. Her throat hitches, but she holds Makima’s gaze. Nods as Makima opens her mouth and —
We can get some casuals for you when we next go out, says Makima.
Reze blinks — her eyes are odd and too wet and too dry all at once. That’d be nice.
Makima hums. She reaches behind her – undoes a hair tie from her braid. It loosens, her hair falling into a curtain around her shoulders and Reze can’t quite look away – even as the other woman’s warm fingers run through her hair, teasing out the strands and twisting it into a bun.
The band snaps into place. Reze’s hand drifts up to brush the unfamiliarity of her bare neck. There, Makima says. You look perfect.
A shivering pause: Reze looks at Makima, all honey eyes and woman and wonders what it would be like to draw her onto her own body — feel that essence on her like a waiting perfection. She wants so desperately to — to kiss her, to be her — to bubble that warmth into her like oxygen. A sudden raw hunger rises up in her — she has to fight to keep her hands still, calm her heartbeat.
Makima’s face is almost mournful when she speaks next. Have you heard of the Gun Devil?
They send her in to fight a devil in a hotel which never ends. She has company this time. Hayakawa, for one. Himeno: choppy black hair almost like Reze’s own, with mischief playing at the corner of her lips and a frightening emptiness in her single eye. The two newbies: timid, strange Kobeni and the nondescript Arai.
They’re whiling away time as Hayakawa does his obsessive rounds. Kobeni’s whimpers fill the room as Reze lies flat on the bed, eyes half-lidded, sinking into its softness.
Himeno’s hair tickles her face as the older woman leans over. Reze… Her voice is low. Almost curious.
Reze opens her eyes. What?
So, you weren’t sleeping. Himeno’s face is careful. Expressionless. An arrow-like smile darts its way onto her face; she claps her hands together in faux cheerfulness. Here’s an idea! Get us out of here and I’ll give you a French kiss, how about that?
Reze grins. What about I get you out of here and you owe me one? To cash in later?
Himeno’s smile widens, creases past her lips and shutters something black and awful into her eyes. She ruffles Reze’s hair. Enterprising! A conspiratorial smirk and a sleazy half wink that lingers like oil in the air. Not too pervy, alright? I know aaalll about boys your age.
I’m a girl, says Reze.
Himeno blinks, guffaws. Whaaat? You’re a girl? She squints at Reze’s face. You know what? You are awfully pretty. I can see it.
You’re a girl? Hayakawa asks later as they walk out to meet the devil.
Reze sticks her tongue out. Did you wish I was a boy when you were molesting me back then? A giggle, artificial. Aah, I didn’t know you swung that way!
I will punch you, Hayakawa deadpans.
But seriously, if you need any — he begins but Reze never gets to find out what she might need because the Eternity Devil speaks and then Kobeni attacks her and things get a little out of hand.
Makima brings her to a bar one day. They’re having a party to welcome the newbies, she says. And Hayakawa so kindly made it a point to invite us, you know. Reze makes a mental note to tease him about it later.
It’s late when they arrive. The table’s cluttered with empty dishes, loosened shirt collars; alcohol-flushed faces turn towards them curiously as Makima pulls off her coat.
Oh, it’s Makima… Himeno whines from the corner. Her blue eyes slide over them — bright in their drunkenness. And the other girl.
Hayakawa gives them a curt nod against the backdrop of Kobeni’s terrified squeak. Reze takes in the sea of unfamiliar faces with a smile.
Reze watches with some amusement as Aki groans, head between his hands. Himeno’s already collapsed.
Do you drink a lot? she asks Makima. That’s some insane tolerance. For Reze, alcohol is plastic packets of spirit, poisonous methanol at streetside corners that go for coins and rid petrol smells with the putridness of rot. It means cash pressed into her hands to funnel into her endless debt. The alcohol here is golden, glasses and chatter. Light like sunlight.
She doesn’t understand it but Makima only smiles mysteriously. Only for work parties.
One of the other guys in the Special Division is starting up a conversation with her when Himeno lurches up.
Euh… newbie. What about that favour, yeah? Her voice is groggy and she’s leering in a way that Reze doesn’t like but she’s more aware of Makima’s gaze on her back.
A favour? asks Makima and Reze winks at her.
Himeno promised me a French kiss if I got us out of that hotel. A pause, meaningful glance.
I’m holding back on cashing in on it, though. She leans forward until her bangs fall over her eyes and quirks her head up. Green eyes meet yellow. She’s unusually bold — something about the heady atmosphere of the bar drives her forward. Something about the unrealness of the quivering lights that cast dream-like shadows on the wall. Unless, she lowers her voice, Makima’s breath warm and fragrant on her neck — unless I get a kiss from someone better fast enough.
A loud sound startles her — Himeno’s booing. Not you too! she says, wagging a lopsided finger. Her hand closes over the handle of Aki’s beer mug; she drains it in a few seconds, slumps over the table and goes still.
I think she’s passed out, says the blonde man. Or gotten alcohol poisoning, who knows?
When Reze looks back at Makima, she’s getting out of her chair. I’ll just take a smoke break, she says. She smiles at Reze. Why don’t you come along?
Minors aren’t allowed to smoke, you know, Reze says as the supermarket doors close behind them. It’s already night: the street lights have switched on, bathing the alley in a pale sickly white. Something crinkles. Makima’s pulled out a small packet from the bag; she hands it to Reze.
A lolly?
Makima’s smile widens. A treat. For being good. She prises away the lollipop from Reze’s hand — carefully peels away the wrapping — FLAVOUR BOMB in cheesy sans. Open wide.
It tastes like cherries, tart and sweet on her tongue. The red-haired woman smiles down at her and Reze instinctively closes her eyes as a hand twines its way around Reze’s neck. Brushes her scalp. Reze’s breath catches in her throat as Makima pulls her into a hug. They stand in that alleyway – Makima’s tall frame enveloping Reze’s own with that sudden raw ache in her chest — inhaling the bitterness on her tongue and the mustiness of Makima’s coat and always that soft stroking of the other woman’s fluttering fingers sending pinpricks down her neck.
Keep being good. Makima’s voice is low against Reze’s hair. Then you won’t have to cash in any favours.
After what seems like eternity, Makima lets go.
She’s half on Himeno’s back — giggling as they almost careen into another post. Aki frowns, steadies them with a hand. Careful.
Reze’s surprised he came at all. Himeno’d teased him: about going home alone, to nothing, and then he’d towed along with them in the end.
I’m tired, Reze whines as they stumble up the apartment stairs — their shadows writhing on the glossiness of the moonlit walls.
Keys ! Himeno screeches when they reach a door. Keyskeyskeys!
That’s my pocket you’re fumbling in, Reze informs her.
Shit, sorry — Himeno whines — I need a smoke. Aki presses something shiny into the older woman’s palm.
Use these.
You have spare keys to her place? Reze’s laugh echoes oddly down the corridor. Aki rolls his eyes and creaks open the door. It’s all minimalist, strange and unHimeno but Reze doesn’t care. She staggers to the sofa and sinks into it with a groan. It’s hot. Why’s it hot?
Himeno waggles her eyebrows from where she’s shimmying out of her coat and opens her mouth —
Ugh, says Aki as his shaking hands attempt to pour himself some water. Drop it. I have a massive headache.
Reze’s only happy to. She’s out like a light.
There’s a hand on her back — it pinches, it hurts. The room smells of toast. She burrows deeper into the sofa and mumbles under her breath. Leavemealone.
Himeno laughs. You can’t sleep now, silly! Makima’s asking for you.
Reze’s eyes open to be assailed by relentless sunlight. What?
But she doesn’t get an explanation — even as she’s hastened to the doorway, clothes pressed into her hands.
Instead, she gets a sandwich. Aki gives her an unreadable look before handing her a small tiffin box, says — It’s for the trip. But you should go now.
And so she does.
It’s the first time she’s ever been on a train. She looks around her curiously as the baggage rattles in the luggage trays above.
Makima’s gazing out of the window; there’s something almost wistful in her expression. The rest of the train smells of Boredom so she taps Makima on the shoulder, smiles — Are you going to tell me why you pulled me out of patrolling today?
Makima looks down at her, a wry edge to her lips. I thought a change might be nice.
Reze laughs. And the cap? The dress?
The other woman frowns. Do you not like it?
Reze elbows her. Of course, she likes it. With the tied-up hair, the new dress, the healthy glow in her cheeks… She’d almost been unrecognisable in the mirror. Thank you, she says finally.
Makima hums, pushes Reze’s bangs out of her face automatically. You’re welcome.
The train trundles into a tunnel. The windows fall into darkness as Makima settles back into her seat. Reze fiddles with her ear — doesn’t register the soft rustling of clothes nor the odd shadows on the seats in front of them.
She hears a metallic click and then a too-loud noise and then nothing, nothing at all.
She comes to — blinks back the swathes of dried blood crusting her eyelids.
Oh, says Makima’s voice. You’re awake. There’s something salty on her tongue.
Slowly, the train seats swim into view and Makima smiles from where she’s letting the blood from the severed limb — a Japanese-man-hand in blue sleeves — trickle into Reze’s mouth.
I’m glad you’re okay, says the woman wearing the blood, the trench coat, the smile. There was an attack.
Reze mutely nods. Her fingers drift to her head — and touch something sticky, round. It makes a squelching sound as she prods it.
She drops her hand from the hole in her head and doesn’t speak, even as they leave the train, a crimson-stained sandwich box left forgotten on her seat,
or even as she watches Makima tell the agents that she wasn’t shot,
or even as Makima delicately threads a blindfold around her eyes and she blinks through the folds of fabric as she hears the unmistakable sound of bodies hitting the floor,
or even, even as Makima guides her to her feet and she registers the lifeless sheen in the prisoners’ eyes and the gleam in the woman’s as she says:
Let’s go back to Tokyo, shall we?
You’re insane, Reze declares finally when they’re nearing Makima’s apartment. The buzz of the streetlights is interrupted by the other woman’s soft laugh.
You’re happy about it, aren’t you? It all being under your control? Her voice is a furtive whisper but Makima only glances back at her, amusement in her eyes.
If that’s what you want to believe.
Reze laughs. I do believe it, you know.
Well, says Makima — there’s a hole in her chest — says — I didn’t need them. But I do need you.
Reze takes a shuddering breath, looks away too quickly.
It’s even later when Makima’s pulling out cartons of old tupperware out of the fridge that Reze says: That’s why you pulled me out today.
The drawer sounds with the metallic clatter of cutlery. They wanted you. I couldn’t take that risk.
Reze forces herself to speak. How many — how many are dead?
Seconds pass. Breathless, relentless silence. Silence that cuts. Makima sets down two gleaming plates on the counter.
Reze rephrases the question. Who survived?
Makima turns to face her. Her eyes study Reze carefully as she says Kobeni. Quite an asset, that one. And Madoka too, but you knew that already.
Oh, Reze says. So then Aki and Himeno are —
she grips the counter. Oh.
Makima tilts her head. Are you upset?
No! Reze answers quickly. Pauses, catches her breath. I don’t know. The stifling room makes her want to fill the space, that odd silence with words. Should I – shouldn’t I feel bad?
Makima shakes her head. That’s alright.
I think, Reze says in a rush, almost tripping over her words — I think when Pochita died I lost that part of me. That I can’t feel sad anymore. Like I’m — broken. All rattling and empty and fake. Words hover unsaid in the air.
Would you feel bad if I died? Makima’s voice is curious.
A little. Reze looks up at her. Yeah, she lies. I probably would.
You wouldn’t, Makima says. You wouldn’t feel a thing.
She turns back towards the table, starts spreading the table mats. Places glimmering cutlery in neat rows. Like metal teeth.
You’re right about Pochita , the older woman continues. Devils don’t really feel. She takes a seat, smiles lightly up at Reze. I don’t.
Huh?
Makima’s eyes are all golden and wrong and warm as she says: You’re not alone.
The man in the graveyard asks her three questions.
- Did she feel sad when her teammates died?
Yes.
She never wanted to have to cope with the awfulness of her inhumanity.
- Does she want revenge?
Maybe.
If Makima wants her to.
- Whose side is she on — humans or devils?
The humans, of course.
As long as they want her, need her.
The man turns, all crooked lines and sunken eyes. You’re a parrot. And a damn good liar.
He jerks his head towards Makima’s receding figure — her coat rippling, drowning in the masses of graves. She’s got you collared, hasn’t she?
No, says Reze. I’m my own. My own person.
The man regards her, cracks his neck. We’ll see, he says and then he kills her.
She’s gone a little mad after a point — after a death upon death. Who’s counting? There’s little she can do except laugh, drink in the blood hungrily, wrap herself in a veil of uncaring that swallows Kishibe’s ruthlessness with a blinding deliriousness: a sort of delicious decadence with which she welcomes the pain and the burning.
With which she fights that awful unconscious with the edge of her lips and with salt on her tongue.
She learns how to bleed and it’s laughably easy — easier, she’s sure, because she’s alone. There’s no one to compare herself to (no one to remind her of how far she’s falling).
Kishibe’s blades are as cold as steel and his knuckles have edges that teach her about this currency, this life of flesh and bone. It becomes almost normal: to lose herself in the rhythm of her own screams as the chainsaw splits open her skull.
A week or so later, they let her loose upon the attackers.
She cuts through hordes of zombies and fights a katana-wielding lunatic in a basement. When he’s defeated, human and restrained and on his knees in front of her, he fixes her with a glare and tells her about his grandfather, of all people.
Reze stabs him in the balls.
His gurgles of pain accompany her delighted laughter in that cold, cold basement.
You killed him.
Reze whips around to come face to face with a devil with wings. He’s fucking immortal. He’ll be fine.
The redhead raises their eyebrow — the midday sun makes their pale face gleam as they walk forward — and they say devils are ruthless, huh?
Their voice is contemplative, even when Reze registers the human head they’re cradling in their arms with slight shock.
Katana groans as Reze sneers. What’s it to you?
Aah, you’re angry, the Angel says, their teeth a vivid red. You don’t smell human though, do you?
You’re awfully pretty for a Devil, aren’t you? Reze conjectures. Her hair’s come out of its bun and there’s blood smeared on her chin. She can only imagine how wild she must look. Devil to devil. Bloody teeth to a bloody smile.
The Angel stares at her for a beat. I’m tired, they say. So keep quiet.
Their hair’s a shade lighter than Makima’s, Reze notices as they retreat into the shadows. A devil, huh?
She turns her attention back to Katana, who’s come to. Screaming’s awfully fun, don’t you think?
Later, Makima takes her to the movies. There’s something beautiful about it: the dimly lit theatre with its musty seats, couples holding hands. Makima’s warm fingers idly playing with her own.
Between movies, Makima gives her money for snacks. The note is unfamiliar but delightfully invigorating in her hand. She buys popcorn — ridiculously stiff, salty and stale but it’s good, so, so good as they balance the bucket between them and Reze cries at a movie for the first time in her life.
I love you, she says and Makima’s smile glitters against the darkness of the seats.
I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.
Later, she sips on a plastic cup of cola — it’s sugary sweet, almost bitter, on her tongue. The theater’s almost empty; they’re playing an old movie. Some family homily Reze doesn’t really care for.
She leans into Makima’s side, cola staining her lips. When you said I wasn’t alone… Her voice is low. Hopeful.
Makima intertwines their fingers, squeezes her hand. You’re not alone, she says. I’ll be there, no matter what.
Are you a devil? Reze wants to ask. Should I be afraid of you? But she doesn’t, just lets a brittle laugh well up from deep inside her and puts her head on Makima’s shoulder as something stings her eyes.
The movie goes on.
It’s raining. Dewy and soft, silhouettes of people in the mist. She feels so horribly alone — Makima in Kyoto again, an apartment empty apart from stench of dog and uneaten food. Rain swells up in gutters, soaks through her T-shirt and so she stumbles into a phone booth and squeezes the water out of the cloth. It scratches her fingers as she wrings it.
It’s here that she meets him. A boy — golden like a dream, a face that tastes of memories and her dead dog. It’s round and full, almost Not Japanese. His mouth breaks into an easy grin as he sees her, as he draws flowers from his mouth and laughs out of her breathless lungs.
He’s oddly sweet. It’s endearing, she can’t help but thinking, as he speaks — his sentences off-kilter, in almost hesitant Japanese as he tells her she’s cute and gives her the name of the café he works at.
The rain dries out — the afternoon sun shines through the windows.
You’ll come? the boy asks, like she’s promised anything — anything at all to him. But Reze is stupid and the apartment is all walls and emptiness, so she says:
Okay.
She walks with Denji to the café — past the milling Tokyo crowds. His hair catches the sun as he turns and whispers conspiratorially to her. I’m actually kinda new to the city.
Reze giggles. I can tell. There’s a pause before she says, me too.
The café’s cute: high-back wooden chairs and wide windows, honeyed cigarette smoke in the air. Denji deposits a cake in front of her; it's odd and glazed and shiny and Reze regards it with trepidation. What’s this?
Caramel pudding. Denji’s worn an apron — cinched around his waist. It’s bright pink. Flower patterned. Coupled with his shy grin, it’s charming.
That’s a weird name, Reze says. But it’s sweet and soft and light as anything on her tongue.
Don’t you go to school? she asks him on another day, when they’re leaning back on musty seats watching the sunset filter through the dusty air of the café.
Nope, Denji responds. He scrunches up his face. I’m kinda… homeschooled. It ain’t that fun.
Your accent’s funny, Reze laughs. How come you’re in Japan?
A vacation! Denji beams.
He asks her to come with him to an empty school. A dare, he says, but he’s so heartbreakingly eager. She can’t help but agree.
The rain starts up again — plastering her shirt to her skin as she runs through the grounds. Denji’s protesting as he snags his foot on an overgrown clump of grass. He calls her back but she laughs, tosses the bangs out of her eyes. Are you afraid of getting wet?
You’re lucky you’re pretty, he tells her in an empty classroom. Her teeth jitter with cold, she leans into him but he’s shivering too. Or else I’d be mad at you.
Aw, Reze says. Her tongue clacks against her teeth. You’re pretty as well. Her fingers are restless, her nails unfurl and scratch the wood of the desk like tally marks.
She can’t even hear the scraping against the pounding of the rain and the thudding of her heart as he flushes against her gaze.
I can’t swim, she confides to Denji. The pool’s eerily silent in front of her: a mass of calm rectangular black. Impassive in the near dark.
Denji crouches and strokes his hand through the water. The lane ropes are stacked on the side like a pile of tired, ribbed snakes; the water gurgles into the grille. He looks up. Grins. Don’t ya trust me?
Reze sits down next to him — looks into his eyes — a warm, honest gold. Not at all.
Huh? What? He’s pouting.
She takes his hand in hers. You’re odd. I can’t make sense of who you are. But you’re fun.
He grips her hand in return, his other hand pushes the hair out of his face. You’re kinda odd too.
Then he pulls her into the water.
She sputters as she goes down, sees the T-mark loom in front of her between swathes of icy water. There’s momentary panic and then a warm hand in hers as she claws her way to the surface and takes hungry gulps of air.
The boy’s laughing too — a raucous sound that echoes strangely against the emptiness of the building. They sit, shivering, with the stench of chlorine settling in their bones. The rain’s stopped.
She feels the rubberiness of her parched tongue and groans. Denji gives a tired grimace: his head is thrown back against the wall, the lines of his neck — his Adam’s apple — gleam against the silver of the moon. His eyes are hooded until they flicker to her and then they seem to glow, catlike in the dark. He smiles, the expression disappears. You shouldn’t struggle. Are you afraid of getting wet?
Idiot, she says. You’re the one who pulled me in.
He ignores her, tosses his head to the side, says: this is fun. And then: I didn’t think you’d be this fun. Can you blame me?
She looks at him carefully — his hair: wet, golden crème caramel. Something strange and metallic outlined under his soaked T-shirt. What do you mean, think?
He does a sort of half nod, half sideways glance. His fingers tap an erratic pattern against his knee. I dunno. A pause. Hey, Reze. Can’t we run away together?
A bead of water traces the line of his jaw as he looks at her. Quit Public Safety, he says.
How — how do you know about that? Her tongue feels large, salty in her throat. A blankness teeters on her face — collapses into her lingering smile.
I know, Denji says. Hey, c’mon. Please.
Her breath shudders. She laughs. I don’t know. Makima —
A groan. Boo. I knew you’d say that.
There’s a sudden flash of something dark on the outline of the window grilles on his face as he looks at her and then the moment’s gone.
He looks away. Gets to his feet. All tall, wiry. Too strange and too thin. I just need to use the loo.
She sits there in a pool of water, ever conscious of her aloneness. It irritates her. Pricks at her. So she gets to her feet, walks gingerly into the wings, into the neatly demarcated male-female washrooms. She thinks she feels like gagging, all too aware of the way her bones feel too wide, her voice too deep. She’d momentarily forgotten.
The dripping of the tank echoes peculiarly on the pool’s metal roof.
Denji? she calls. There’s no response but there’s a strangled groan from the depths of the male washroom. Denji? Again. Her voice is too loud in her ears.
There’s an almost silence. She feels an inexplicable sense of foreboding creep up on her, prickle at the back of her neck.
She pushes the door open. It creaks. Blurry shapes resolve themselves into cubicles. Rows of urinals and sinks.
Denji?
There’s a faint whimper from the last stall. She walks forward almost on autopilot, past the cubicles, gleaming sink counter. Floor scuffed with muddy shoe marks.
The stall door opens to reveal Denji, crouched over a dead body and a gurgling toilet, his hands coated with red.
Ah, he says, that odd smile-frown still on his face, like it’s something casual, what he’s doing. Like there’s not a scream building up in her throat at the sight of the clinical slashes across the nondescript man’s chest. I can explain?
Reze shakes her head. Kishibe’s taught her better. She pulls her choker and feels the chainsaw carve its way out of her skull.
There’s something terrifying about him, about the burning to him. About the way he fights, all screaming and rounded edges.
The sky burns too — with fireworks — and his sunshine disappears into flame.
She doesn’t need to ask him why — ask him anything — but he tries to explain anyway, like he’s going to fool her. She’s not that foolish. She can’t be that foolish.
They join up with Pubic Safety soon enough, as she beats a hasty retreat. He’s an assassin: cool and clinical; he reaches there before her even as she stumbles through the streets in terror.
She should have guessed with the way his warmth was tempered with intent, even back then. Even at the school.
A wave of anger overwhelms her. She hates being weak, being underestimated.
Her chest aches as she lies collapsed in the rubble, as her chainsaws retract. She gazes fixedly at the unconscious body of the Shark Fiend as she bites into her arm and feels the blood heal her.
Up on her feet, then. Her knees shake. Her legs don’t quite feel like legs.
But there are plenty, plenty of bodies to drink from. She has a betrayer to kill.
He wakes her up after dragging her onto the beach. She opens her eyes to sea foam and the smell of salt.
She watches him as he speaks, falters over words. He speaks with hands, with screwed up eyes and smiles as she clutches her ragged shirt around her.
He tells her that he’s an assassin. A Soviet spy. He tells her that he’s tired of it. He asks her, again, if she’ll run away with him.
His eyes are impossibly bright when he looks into hers. She dips her head — watches the shells being washed away by the waves.
You came here to kill me, she says finally. Why?
He shrugs. They wanted your heart, didn’t they?
Do you always fail your missions? she asks him.
He gives her an unreadable look. Seconds pass.
Okay, she says.
She can’t help but throw a glance behind her to the boy on the beach as she walks away. She waves at him in the end, smiles at him with the sand between her toes and wind in her hair.
He cups his hands over his mouth. The café! I’ll be waiting.
The sunshine smears the sky.
Where are you going?
Reze’s hand stiffens on the doorknob. She turns, leans onto the door. The straps of the rucksack cut into her bony shoulders.
Makima’s there.
I thought you were gone, Reze says. How was your trip?
I came back. A beat. Where are you going?
Out, Reze bites. Stops, retracks. In a softer voice: I don’t have to answer you.
Makima’s smile is a sliver of a heartbeat in her chest. Were you leaving?
No. No, Reze blurts out. I wasn’t.
Makima looks at her for a too-long second and then drops her gaze onto the dog she’s petting. It curls around her hand, licks the woman’s hand in a disgusting flash of wet tongue. Okay.
I was going to neutralise the hybrid, Reze continues. Since that’s what you wanted. He trusts me. I can get to him.
Sit, Makima tells the dog. It folds in on itself, sniffing at the woman’s ankles — all heavy panting — You needn’t bother. I’ll take care of it.
Reze stands frozen as Makima comes closer, eases the rucksack off her shoulders. Now, where did he say he’d be?
Makima kills Denji in an alleyway.
She makes Angel peel off his limbs one by one after they spear him through the chest.
He won’t stop looking at her even as
his breaths run ragged, even as his tortured eyes turn a dull gold. She knows how it feels. She knows what dying feels like so she
crosses her arms and closes her eyes and turns away but Makima won’t let her, she
splices Reze’s eyes open with her fingertips and makes her watch as
the Devil with the wings teaches her how to take a hybrid apart.
I’m sorry, she wants to say but her voice is empty and indistinct. A ghost in her throat. She mouths the words until it melts into a notword, a chant, and becomes a prayer as
Denji finally, finally screams.
She feels herself flinch but a hand under her chin angles her head to face the broken body on the ground.
Keep looking, says Makima. Never look away.
It’s later, when the alleyway is painted with awful prop red and Makima’s disappeared with Denji cradled in her arms, that Reze sags into the hollow of the wall and wishes she knew what to feel apart from this terrible emptiness.
Angel drops to their feet. They sit — cross legged on the grimy pavement with their pure white wings strewn like limbs on the wall with its pink flyers.
Missing posters and mosquito mesh advertisements. They look at her.
You’re mad at me, they observe. Casual, like they’re commenting on the weather.
You stole my kill, Reze says, her eyes half closed. Isn’t that terrible? Isn’t that bad manners?
Her teeth feel sharp against the corners of her mouth.
Manners… Angel sighs. You’re being annoying again.
Reze jerks up from the wall. Widens her eyes and whets her grin. After such a demonstration, how can I help it?
She waits, shuddering for a response but Angel’s eyes only flick away from her. And I can’t help you either, human. They tilt their head. Now leave me alone.
Reze snorts. You act like you’re lazy but you’re great at following orders, aren’t you?
Is that what you’re saying now? Angel asks. What’s so horrid about that? Aren’t we in the same boat? We run, or we’re killed?
She giggles slightly. I’m not her mindless slave. She cares about me. I care about her, too.
Angel regards her carefully. We all love her. You’re not any different.
Why not use me as bait? she asks. There’s something she wants. A delightful terror or caring or hell, even a reason at all, which she searches the other’s gaze for but Makima only smiles and says, like she’s always said —
that they’ll stick together, that Makima will handle it all (that Reze is after all, entirely useless).
And so she stays with Makima as the battle rages around them — Aren’t they coming for me? she asks and Makima replies:
they’re coming for us all.
She is incidental. She is a wallflower in the steaming piles of bodies that Makima amasses as the walls snarl with red and then they’re in hell.
They’re in something that cannot be put into words: a nameless, faceless fear that can only be felt. Among rows of darkness, they shake awake their shivering faiths as each small sound and horror seems to be swallowed up by the catastrophic emptiness of the sky and —
Don’t be scared, says Makima. You can trust me.
The woman with the silver hair doesn’t quite meet Makima’s gaze. In her low, throaty voice, she pleads, pleads a life for her lovers.
Chainsaw. Makima’s voice is low. Put on your blindfold.
Who was she? Reze asks as they walk away from the corpse of the woman with silver hair. Makima’s eyes are set ahead, unseeing. There’s a spot of blood on her jaw.
She’s in the past, Makima says.
And me?
The smile slips its way onto Makima’s face. You? You’re the future.
Reze can’t quite breathe. Reze can’t quite look away.
The foam nets between her fingers as they splay in the sand. The setting sun is oily against the sky.
She wants to catch it — feel its fierce orange glow, move it around inside her — or laugh, cry, be real. Be something but she can only feel this, this numbness of quiet detachment.
The tide sweeps away, wrenching the sand from the balls of her feet. A winged shadow forms on the sand.
Makima’s asking for you, says Angel.
Their empty sleeves and pale hair tear into the wind as Reze eyes them.
Why? she asks finally. She’d sound suspicious if she could be bothered to care.
Angel stirs. She said it’s too dangerous for you to be out.
It’s not, Reze says but she gets up anyway — slips into her sandals as the devil watches.
You’re — they start and then stop.
I’m what? She asks them but they simply shake their head and walk her back to Makima’s apartment.
You’re perfect, Makima whispers against her lips.
Am I? Reze asks, her voice strained. Like this?
It’s alright, the woman replies. You’re entirely yourself.
The stars disappear into the folds of the sky.
Makima starts bringing her food. Plastic cartons of dubious-looking meat. Little plastic containers of sides. Mayonnaise and sauces.
A new favourite restaurant? Reze had joked after the third takeaway Makima had pressed into her hands and asked her to try.
Makima had only hummed. Something like that. Don’t waste it.
She notices the devil in the taste of it, but since when has Reze been picky about food?
The apartment’s almost always empty. Makima’s usually out for work so Reze spends her time watching TV and sleeping. Occasionally one of the dogs comes, curls up next to her and she’ll idly stroke its belly.
Something buzzes at her memory. Like it should remind her of something, but she can’t remember what it is.
One day, Makima informs her that she’ll be out for a week. It’s a business trip to Kyoto, she explains as she straightens the collar of her coat. You know how it goes.
Can’t I come along? I did last time.
Makima casts a glance behind her. No, she says. It’s fine.
I need you to fill in some papers, Makima says another day. The usual Public Safety paperwork. Don’t worry. I’ve filled in what I already know.
I can’t write, Reze says.
I’ll write it down, then. There’s the sound of papers rustling, the click of a pen.
Makima clears her throat. Your name?
Reze looks up. You don’t know my name?
Makima shrugs. You never told me.
There’s a second as the colours of the apartment seem to blur in front of her. It’s Reze, she says. Reze.
Reze, the other woman repeats. She clicks her tongue. Spelling?
She retches into the sink as the bitter tang of vomit rises up in her throat. Cringes — coughs out the remnants of her lunch until her throat is dry.
She lets the tap run as she splashes water into her face and rinses her mouth.
Makima’s bathroom is tastefully tiled. Reze kneels and wipes up the remaining flecks of vomit with a tissue before shutting the tap. She leans onto the wall.
The ceiling — white and unassuming — stares back at her. She lets out what’s meant to be a sharp bark of laughter. It falters. She resumes staring.
Her nails dig into the pads of her thumbs, but the pain doesn’t come. Is it to do with her regeneration? Does it mean she’s clamming up slowly? Stuck in an unfeeling body with an unfeeling heart?
Her eyes feel too dry as she sinks to her knees.
Makima arrives later, closes the door with a tired sigh.
Long day? Reze asks, helping her out of her coat.
Makima nods. Lots of things to do. I had to file in your papers too.
She pulls Reze close and presses a soft kiss to her lips. Her nose wrinkles. You taste like vomit.
Reze moves away to hang up the coat. I threw up.
That’s too bad, Makima says, putting a takeaway carton down on the shelf. I’ll get you some hot water before your meal.