I've decided to continue from where I had left off previously and will expand this one-shot into an actual short story. Please note: I'm not used to writing my projects on the fly like I'm doing with this one, so updates will be sporadic. Leave a comment below if you have any critiques for this work. - MB (August 2021)


The car was driving at a steady pace, having cleared the checkpoints and the crowds surrounding the scene of the destruction. A five-by-five square-mile zone tapped off from the public and admissible only to federal agents of all branches. Firemen, EMTs, policemen and members of Public Safety, all lied in this rough circumference of death and destruction.

Kishibe kept his gaze steady, eyeing the grey hued van of Public Safety Division Four just ahead of him. They had loaded the body into that van post-haste—even forgot to clean the blood still dripping from the tailgate. It gave him all the assurance he needed to know that Makima was not present during this time, having fucked off to someplace else instead of supervising the transport of the final piece to the puzzle.

Perfect.

It was a matter of timing it right. He could take advantage of the tight corners and passages of the city once he snags the prize and gets away, or he could wait until they were out of sight and out of proximity to other Public Safety units, and surprise them with an ambush. Either way still brought possible dangers and circumstances that he couldn't afford.

It would have to be swift, and merciless. No emotion could dictate his actions here, not when everything was so perfectly set up for him to exploit.

He would not outright admit it, but seeing the aftermath of the fight had proven itself to be the worst thing he'd laid eyes upon. It was...challenging, trying to recognize the fact that the hellish monstrosity with chainsaws for limbs was his very pupil, but the sentiment still burned in his heart. No amount of alcohol was going to take away the sight of the hollow and lifeless remains of his pupil being carried into that van, as though nothing more than a sack of flesh and metal. Blood boiled under skin, even despite the expressionless mask Kishibe had put on.

Makima had killed Denji. Butchered him, slaughtered him like a dog. Makima had disappeared Power, too—likely killed her as well. Too many people, too many friends and companions, murdered for the sake of a callous devil and her hopeless dream.

The grip on the steering wheel tightened. It would have to be now, before the van could reach the highway. He couldn't wait any longer.

A revving on the engine, and his two-seater sped around the van, slowing to a stop and forcing the target vehicle to halt. Kishibe stepped out, his keys still sitting in the ignition.

He waited until the driver, another of Makima's puppets, attempted to swerve around the sudden obstacle. Here, where the van was not angled to easily escape, where the trajectory placed it in the path of the sidewalk; all that was needed was just a little bit more to the left—

Kishibe raised his right palm, and muttered under his breath, "Needle."

The windshield cracked from the sudden pressure, and the driver's head jerked back against the seat's headrest whereupon a volley of six-inch, blood red needles buried themselves into their skull. The force knocked the driver off the controls, and the van rolled into a stationary vehicle off on the side of the street, coming to a halt.

The puppet in the passenger seat was already out and reaching for his service pistol when Kishibe opened the sheath of his combat knife and stepped once, closing the distance between them at the snap of the fingers, then disarming and dismembering the poor soul with ease.

Now came the hard part.

He had not seen exactly how many other puppets climbed into the back of this van along with Chainsaw's bludgeoned body, but if Makima had any semblance of caution, it would be one of her more…personal picks.

It could be anyone. It could be the people in Division Four, it could be someone new, it could possibly be one of the assassins that Makima had taken a personal liking to. It did not matter then, what kind of threat lay beyond the confines of the gray coffin. He would kill them all the same.

Even if it was his beloved to never be, Quangxi, he could not stop. He could not let this moment expire.

But then, the van began to rumble.


It was lonely here, in this cold and dark place.

But that was fine. She wanted to be alone. It's what she had always been, and it's what she believed she would remain.

It was right to say her past-self was true to her assumptions—and why wouldn't she be, she is the best after all—for no one's life was exceptional by her understanding, all were but dominoes stacked side by side, waiting for the intangible hand of fate to topple them over.

She lay content here, in the abyss. She found herself a nice place to sleep, here among the shriveled lengths of intestines and warm pools of crimson-black blood. So long as you pay no heed to the squirming of these entrails, it was a relatively peaceful landscape.

Something nudged her head. She assumed it to be one of the innards acting up again.

"…'m still sleeping, so go away."

"Wake up, Power."

One eye blinked open and looked to the ungrateful soul who'd woken her from her beauty sleep. Can't a devil get some time to herself, for once? Who the hell was this schmuck—?

"What…?" Power turned her head, because now she was confused. Just what the hell was this…this thing? A canine it was, but it had a chainsaw sticking out from its head, a handle lay further behind on its back, and it stared down at her with the cutest eyes.

Wait—

"Ah!" Power lit up with recognition, "You're Pochita! I remember, Denji told me about you."

The dog-like devil seemed overcome with joy as his tail wagged, and he let out a joyous woof with excitement.

But his tone grew somber all too quickly, and Pochita spoke, "Please, Power—I want you to save Denji."

Save Denji.

It seemed like a wondrous idea, an idea that she would come up with had she the strength to achieve it. But now Power took notice to the desolate place they inhabited, this cold and quiet place.

"…aren't I dead, Pochita?" she doubtfully asked, "I can't save Denji if I'm dead, and stuck here."

"Then how are you talking to me, if you're dead?" the fluffball countered, and Power could only take that statement for granted. But there's a lot of mystery to why she was here, in this place—was this endless field of blood and guts just another tier of hell? Was this place a sort of in-between, that which lied before the overworld, and the underworld? Was this karma over her bad hygiene?

Probably not the last one, she definitely concluded.

"Your current form, Power," Pochita pulled her from her thoughts, "it is the blood you made Denji drink, from before that fateful encounter."

Yeah, huh.

"But it's true; even with your blood devil powers, you'll disappear at this rate…but don't worry," and the tail was wagging again, brimming with opportunity, "Devils can increase their strength by eating the flesh of strong devils—you can eat me, and be revived as a devil in the overworld."

I can be revived?

Hope is a very dangerous thing. Its lure is sickeningly sweet, so much that one can forget that hope does not guarantee what they wish for. But Power could do nothing but hope, could do nothing but think of the sweet possibility. And what was left for her to choose? This place was creeping her out already. She definitely didn't like it here, not even a little bit.

"Will you save Denji for me?" Pochita offered.

All lives were trivial. Even hers. Death meant nothing to the greater lot of them, nothing but another point to mark on the thread of what makes up the lives of humans and devils. Doomed are they, humans and devils alike, for time will not spare the one or the other from its withering touch.

But to save Denji, to save someone who was different from the rest—because he was her first friend, he was the first person that she knew she liked. All that which connected them, all the moments of time that distinguished him from other names and faces—it could not be without fail. It would not do, to let him go so quickly, so carelessly, not when he meant so much to her.

She couldn't help but smile the slightest. The hell was she gonna say otherwise?

"Obviously, Denji's my buddy!"

And when the half-dozen puppets sitting in the van's interior took note of the way their cargo began spazzing out on the floor, not one had the time to recognize the threat before swords of blood impaled them through.


It took a total of seven seconds for the van to stop bouncing around, and yet Kishibe still held his ground. It would take another fifteen minutes before nearby units would send a com-check over the radio and realize that the van was compromised, but every single second spent waiting was another second that chance could work against him. All that kept him from rushing forward was the unknown, and any possibilities that sprung from it.

He decided to keep a wide berth, side-stepping around the van. The rear-doors were still closed, so it was likely that whatever still lived in there might try to ambush him if he gets too close. Something was in there—if it had the strength to rock the ten-ton machine this way and that, it definitely had the strength to put up a fight against him.

The van rumbled again, a lot tamer compared to last time, but it never hurt to be cautious. He had to make a move, but it would be on his terms, on his conditions. Even the best laid traps had weaknesses.

He kept his approach angled to the doors, so that even if whoever sprung out to attack, he would be on their flank, and have the chance for a first strike. Slowly, ever-steadily, his steps across the asphalt brought him closer, closer still—

The rumbling stopped again.

Kishibe was brushing against the rear-light of the van when he stopped as well. He stood still, listening for any movement inside—hearing the sounds of something. It was hushed, panicked. It was as though whoever was…sobbing? That couldn't be right.

He dared to take a peek inside, through the tinted rear-windows. And he could not help but widen his eyes the slightest upon witnessing what laid inside.

Immediately he moved to the doors and swung them open by the handles.

The bloodied and speared carcasses of six puppets were lined along the small bench-seats. Their blood was everywhere, speckled on the roof and walls of the van, and pooled in great volumes on the vehicle's floor. And in the midst of this growing pool of blood, clutching at his heart, sat Denji.

The boy looked like he'd not incurred a single scratch, but Kishibe could tell something was not right. This was obvious enough, now that the body of that Chainsaw monster was nowhere to be seen, and what replaced it was a boy shaking in his pants. A single tear was falling from Denji's eye.

"Denji," Kishibe rasped, and the boy snapped from his trance, "…you good?"

It took a second, but eventually the boy found his voice, "ye-yeah, yeah. I'm good—"

"Good. We don't got much time," and if he'd been keeping track right, they had another five minutes left before the rest of the nearby units of Public Safety would respond to the scene, "Get up, we're getting out of here."

So, Denji followed silently behind Kishibe as they got into the Captain's car and sped down the street and turned out of sight.