Chapter Text
You are Conquest. One of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, as drawn from the Christian canon. The Control Devil.
Before your awakening and abduction, your mother named you Makima. Your handlers gave you the same name as part of your cover story, deep in the halls of the Public Safety Bureau.
For the sake of convenience, you call yourself Makima as well. It is the name of a human, which you are pretending to be. That is all that the old men holding your leash in the Japanese government need to know.
You are Conquest. You are Makima. And before your latest incarnation, you were human.
She was from another world, you have surmised, or deluded to the point that she couldn’t distinguish fiction from reality. A world in which the second world war happened and the atomic bomb fell and then seventy years later, a transgender American woman with several crippling psychoses fell down a flight of stairs and bashed in her skull.
She died, and the last incarnation of the Control Devil died a world over, and somehow, that human soul ended up tainting the primordial sludge of your existence.
It is… inconvenient, to say the least. You suspect that, were you ever to prostrate yourself before the Psychiatrist Devil, it would diagnose you with severe mental illness.
Which you would never do, of course. Your existence is singular, contrary to the nagging, withered voice in your head that humans call a conscience. You have no idea how they manage to function, though your theory board lists several options drawn from your long-running side hobby in anthropology.
Hypocritical sacs of blood they might be, but human beings do fascinate you. After all, you used to be one. Their fear feeds you, yes, but it’s so satisfying to watch the course of their lives and what they can accomplish when truly unburdened.
Such as today.
You’ve been expecting this day for a while. Long ago, your human half remembered watching an anime with several salient details depicting a world very similar to this one. Were you half as voracious as your Mappa-animated, anime-villain counterpart, you have no doubt that you would be eager to acquire Chainsaw Man. That legendary Hero of Hell who could help you get one over on your infuriating siblings once and for all.
You are… not so ambitious. In fact, in the depths of your unbeating, sociopathic heart, you would admit that you are a bit stressed. It’s absolutely not your fault that you keep acquiring Devil Hunters and Devils that you find interesting, and really, really, really do not want to let them go. If you had your way, Japan could burn so long as you can keep your hands on Division Four and let all the little humans under your control blossom into the people that they always could be.
But no. You have contracts with the Japanese government, and that means you have to send your precious Devil Hunters and Devils out into the field.
You’ve kept them all alive, anyways, because you are the Control Devil and you’ve accounted for all the factors. A few bribes here, a few nudges there, some manipulation of office politics to get your humans in positive headspaces一Madoka and Aoi do make the most adorable couple, and you just knew that Higashiyama-chan and the Violence Devil would work well together一and they’ve all been alive and well. It’s like collecting Funko Pop dolls, except when you wave your dolls around, they kill people and do very impressive tricks.
Except for Chainsaw Man. Denji, you have to remind yourself. It’s so hard to remember the boy beneath the overwhelming stench of Chainsaw Man’s power, even if he has restricted himself to the form of that cutesy dog, Pochita.
Your innate abilities and contracts are powerful, but even so, it took far too long to find Denji. Too long to prevent his inevitable decline from his heart condition. The right devil contract would rectify the issue, but any devil worth their salt would charge an untenable price when they realized just who they were healing. The boy who stole the heart of the Hero of Hell.
It’s frustrating how few avenues you have to control a primal fear like Chainsaw Man, even though your conscience still dislikes these sorts of manipulations. Exciting too in a way. After all, conquest is an interesting fear. Controlling someone isn’t as interesting if the leash is so loose that they can’t feel it, even if Denji has so many levers for manipulation.
Which you aren’t because for all your faults, you are trying to possess some modicum of self-introspection.
That’s why you sent Denji to Kishibe.
It was a logical decision, and not just because the temptation from being so close to Chainsaw Man unnerves you. The mad dog of Division 1 makes for a good guard beneath that gruff, prickly, lethal exterior. He would get attached like he always did to breakable things and keep Denji safe from the old men holding your contract. Safe from you, more importantly.
Like you’ve said, you engage in a lot of self-introspection. You’re well aware that you’re a murderous control freak with delusions of grandeur and a parasocial obsession with your humans. You’re Conquest, not the Sexy Anime Woman Fluff Devil.
Kishibe has kept Denji safe. Used him and trained him. A low-ranking Devil Hunter and schoolboy, hardly of notice to the imperialist rats who scurry through the bureaucracy of Japan.
Which has led you to now, your plans in motion like clockwork teeth.
Taking a final sip of your tea, you set it down on your desk. Across it, sitting in his usual crumpled suit, is Kishibe. You’ve done your best to loosen him up over the years, but well… you are a devil. It was always a fool’s errand.
“So, it’s finally happened,” you murmur.
Kishibe grunts and takes a swig from his flask. You swear that the man has an iron liver. “Yup. Had him all pretty and comfortable in that hospital bed, doped up on painkillers. Awful way to go out.”
“Is that so?” You pour myself another cup of tea because it’s the only human ritual you can perform without looking too uncanny. You really should drink less. You’re not the Tea Devil. “I thought that you humans preferred to die in bed surrounded by your loved ones.”
“Folks with their heads on straight do,” Kishibe says. “The kid probably enjoyed it. Had some good bonds with my hunters.” Another gulp of liquor went down his gullet, smelling foul. “Then he woke up with his pet devil in his chest. He’ll never have such a good death ever again.”
Ah. Just another human thing that you will never quite get then. You keep yourself from frowning and drink more tea. “I did tell you that this would happen.”
“You did,” Kishibe admits. His dead eyes meet mine. “You didn’t tell me that the bureaucrats would want to transfer our new hybrid over to Division Four, though.”
“Do they now?” you say coolly. “How inconsiderate of them. You train good hunters, Kishibe-san.”
He stares at you for a long moment, his gaze piercing. The joke’s on him though, your poker face is magnificent.
“Do you remember what I said to you, all those years ago?” Kishibe asks suddenly.
You smile at him. “How could I forget? You were the first person to tell me the unvarnished truth.”
If you ever start working against humanity, I’ll be the one to kill you.
And he had meant it too! Such a refreshing feeling, to be afraid.
“Hmmph,” Kishibe grunts. With little fanfare, he rises to his feet. “I’ll leave you to it then.”
Striding to the door to your office, he flings it open with monstrous strength. Through your sentry rats, you hear the muffled sound of conversation in the waiting room, and the smell…
Ah, yes. There you are.
You adopt a pleasant expression as Chainsaw Man steps into the room.
“Oy! You’re Makima-san, aren’t ya? That old man told me a lot about ya. Didn’t say how pretty you are!”
Oh god, it would be so easy. You force yourself to frown. “I am your superior, Denji-kun. Don’t be so crass.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means being rude,” you say. “Commenting on a woman’s body when it’s unwanted.”
Denji leans on the chair across my desk, confused. “But why wouldn’t ya want it?”
“You are a child, Denji-kun.”
“Hasn’t stopped people before,” he says proudly, pounding his chest. “And I’m twice the man that I was before, thanks to that old geezer.”
You’re going to kill Kishibe. “That’s good to know, Denji. Anyway, I’ve called you here to meet the man that will be your mentor here in Division Four. He should be able to acquaint you with the work that we do.”
Denji adopts a thoughtful expression. “He any good?”
“He’s one of our best hunters,” you say. Pressing a button on my intercom, you clasp your fingers together. “You may come in, Hayakawa-san.” You meet Denji’s gaze as Aki steps into the room. “Denji, this is Aki Hayakawa. Aki, this is your new ward, Kishibe Denji. I trust that you’ll be capable of showing him the ropes.”
Aki nods. Unlike his fictional counterpart, you’ve spent years acclimating him to the idea of mentoring hybrids, fiends, and other… troublesome subjects. He’s very well trained.
“I’ll leave you both to it,” you say with a pleasant smile. “Thank you both for your hard work. I’m glad to have you here.”
The two boys leave, Denji already giving Aki grief. You can’t help but feel your smile stretch further, well beyond human bounds.
All according to plan.
When you first took control of Division Four, one of your first steps was to institute a more rigorous training program—for Devil Hunters and for Devils themselves. You pride yourself on the quality of your subordinates, and seeing as manipulating lesser beings into becoming hybrids and fiends is morally fraught, you’ve had to improve their caliber by other means.
Hence, Division Four’s state of the art training facilities, designed by yourself. It’s a point of great pride.
You watch from an external viewing port alongside Himeno as Denji, Power, and Beam make their way through a simulated skyscraper, slaying fake devils while saving “civilians.” The amount of collateral damage is horrendous, but it’s not as though it will be permanent. You facilitated a contract between your superiors and the Eternity Devil just for this sort of thing, after all. Your employers envisioned more unsavory purposes, perhaps, but you’re willing to use the contract for more frivolous ends.
Himeno cheers as Denji decapitates a particularly massive Devil stand-in, smiling. It’s a hollow mask. “Good job, Denji!”
Denji screams something, but you tune it out in favor of looking pointedly at Himeno. She scowls in response. “I’m not doing anything, you frigid bitch!”
Oh good. Your employees feel comfortable insulting you. It’s always so satisfying to see—
Not the time, Makima.
“How has therapy been going, Himeno?” You say pleasantly. “Well, I hope.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” Frustration and self-loathing waft off her in waves. “I’m not… ugh, propositioning him.” She reaches down for the flask hanging off her belt, only to find it missing. “What?”
“Hmm.” You pull the flask from the lips, swishing the contents around in your cheeks. Cranberry juice. What a pleasant surprise. You must look like an American chipmunk. “I think it’s gone bad.”
“Give me that!” Himeno snarls, snatching her flask back. You allow it. “It’s supposed to be like that. And I’m not an idiot. I know better.”
“You’re a competent women, Himeno-san. I trust that you’ve learned from your past indiscretions. I wouldn’t have kept you in my division otherwise.”
“Hmmph.” Himeno takes a swig of juice. “It’s just not the same.” She gives you a thoughtful side-eye. “Your division, huh? Not the government’s?”
You simply smile, eyes not straying from where Denji and Power are working together to piledrive a fake Bull Devil down an elevator shaft.
“I don’t like you,” Himeno says after a long moment. “But… thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She doesn’t seem to hear you. “I spoke with Aki the other day. Actually listened to that stupid shrink for a change. Way better than the government one the other divisions use.”
The day that you entrust the mental health of your hunters to the Japanese government is the day you return to hell. You nod slightly.
“He… I wasn’t in a good place, before. Wasn’t good to him or myself. Probably would have bitten it by now if not for… yeah. Wouldn’t have stopped drinking or doing that other stuff otherwise.” True, but you don’t need to pat yourself on the back. “So, thank you. Y’know. For helping me be… better. Even though your whole schtick is evil overlord.”
“Personally, I’ve been trying for Bond villain,” you muse. Like witnessing a poison dart frog, your hunters should know to be wary of you. “Should I wear dark shades as well? That Matrix movie from the Americans excels at presentation.”
Himeno laughs, actually laughs, for the first time that you’ve heard in months. A slight frown crosses your face, though you quickly mask it; you weren’t joking.
“You’re fucking insane, Makima-san. Guess that’s why you’re one of the strongest Devil Hunters in the country, huh?”
For lack of anything else to say, you affect a smile and tilt your head towards her. “Keep up the good work, Himeno-san. I’m proud of how far you’ve come.”
“...” Himeno crosses her arms and looks back out at the Devils as they celebrate slaying the final stand-in enemy. Her expression is inscrutable. “Kishibe was right. You’re the worst, Makima.”
“I do my best.”
Ever since your latest incarnation awakened, you have loved dogs. Soft, fluffy, excellent at learning tricks, obedient, loyal. Every trait that you love in a living creature.
This is why you own five cats.
You hate cats. They’re obstinate, mercurial, and impossible to predict. Worst of all, they don’t fear death, so you can’t intimidate them into silence. Your apartment hasn’t known a moment of peace since you purchased your first cat twelve years ago.
In short, they are perfect and you would kill anything that dared to threaten them.
Devils are creatures of action. You know this to be indisputable fact. Whenever a devil gets too comfortable, whenever the peace and quiet lasts too long, they do something to cause chaos. It is a trait inherent to your kind, and you are no exception.
The cats help to keep you on your toes. For that alone, they are worth your weight in gold.
There are ancillary benefits to the felines as well. Sociological experiments performed by the University of Tokyo suggest that feminine-presenting individuals with cats are seen as more malicious and untrustworthy than those with dogs. You weren’t certain how many cats you needed to trigger the effect in your subordinates, so you decided to overshoot. Your employees needed to know that you were someone to be feared and distrusted after all, according to your inherited morals.
You aren’t certain that it’s working. Maybe you need to start petting one during work hours like some amateur James Bond villain.
That’s currently what you’re doing now. Your black cat, Denarius, rumbles in your lap as you sit in your office at Division Four headquarters. The twilight sun streams through the window, castling long shadows. With carefully trimmed nails, you scratch his fur; your other hand balances your work phone.
“Good evening, Hayakawa-san. How are you handling your new charge?”
“The Blood Fiend is settling in well,” Aki says, his voice crackling over the connection. A loud crash can be heard in the background and he amends, “better than yesterday, at least.”
“Good,” you say, pleased. “You’ve earned an overtime bonus, of course.”
“Thank you, Makima-san. Your generosity is appreciated.”
“Please,” you say, Denarius purring as you scratch behind his ears. “You’re a valued member of this team, Aki-san. Accept the compensation that you’re owed.”
It’s all superfluous praise, at any rate. Aki cares less for commendations and more for his ultimate goal of slaying the Gun Devil. Not that you approve of this unhealthy mindset. You can only hope that your words shift him in the right direction, or prompt him to speak with a colleague for emotional support.
“Would you like an update on Denji as well, Makima-san?” Aki asks.
Oh. “I trust in your efforts, Aki-san,” you say dismissively. “There’s no need.”
“Makima-san…” Aki hesitates.
“Go on,” you prod him. You want your subordinates to communicate their thoughts and feelings with you. After all, you care.
“Is there a reason that you’ve been avoiding Denji?”
You smile, even though only Denarius is the sole being present to witness it. “Oh? You must be mistaken.”
“I’m not,” Aki asserts himself. “He’s asked whether he’s doing a good job in the division. And once he asked, I started noticing things.”
“How observant of you.”
“That doesn’t answer the question, Makima-san.”
Such a smart boy. You hum thoughtfully, more for Aki’s benefit than your own. “Denji-kun has an… unhealthy attachment to the idea of me, Aki-san. I do not wish to encourage him.”
Vague, but laden with enough implication that Aki sees what you want him to see. “My apologies, Makima-san. I can speak with him.”
“You’re excused,” you reassure him. “He didn’t know any better. But you can understand my reticence, I hope.”
At the very least, it’s a reticence he can understand, or so you’ve planned.
Denarius yowls in your lap. You forcefully relax your grip where you’ve been pressing down too hard and he leaps out to begin prowling the room.
“…I understand, ma’am.”
That’s all there is to discuss then.
“Have a nice evening, Aki,” you tell him. “Enjoy a pleasant dinner with Power and Denji.”
For a given definition of nice. But you know it will get there in the end, step by step. The emotional stability that Chainsaw Man needs, far enough away to avoid the temptation that dogs your every waking thought.
(Your fingers tremble. Searching for an itch to scratch.)
You hope.
Your name is Higashiyama Kobeni and you are a coward.
This fact isn’t new to you. Your father likes to say that when you were born, you tried to crawl back into the womb because you were too scared to live. On her bad days, when she doesn’t think you’re listening, your mother will riposte that the only reason you haven’t killed yourself is because you are too cowardly to face death.
Maybe, if you weren’t so much of a coward, you could stand up to them. The very thought causes your heart to race like it’s ready to explode out of your chest.
No, you are a coward. You have accepted that much about yourself. It’s why you applied for a position in Public Safety even though the idea of hunting Devils makes you want to vomit. Prostituting yourself for the yakuza scared you more, however, and while you’ve still sold your body to the highest bidder, at least Public Safety won’t reflect poorly on your brother’s career. Your heart couldn’t take the scandal.
You currently work for Division Four, the special unit of Public Safety. Half of your colleagues have contracts with devils that cause you to break out into hives just at the mere mention. The other half are Devils themselves. All of them probably think that you’re pathetic; you read once in a piece of fanfiction that Devils are drawn to fear, and if that’s the case, then you must be the most delectable banquet in the entire office. Just the thought makes you want to cry.
Scratch that. You’re already crying.
Today has been the worst. For the first time, you were assigned to a four-person squad alongside your boss and superior, Makima, to hunt down the Alien Devil. This was your big break, your chance to impress the higher-ups and maybe get a raise. Instead, you were trapped in an abandoned school with a devil that could apparently mimic other people and you might have panicked just a little and made a huge scene and ohmygodyoustabbedyourbossintheshoulderandalmostgoteveryonekilled一
Alone in the bureau’s changing room showers, after hours, there’s nobody left to witness your shame as you wail and sink to your knees. The cold shower water threatens to drown you and your knees hurt bracing against the tile floor, but you can’t bring yourself to move.
You failed to kill the Alien Devil, which wasn’t even strong enough to outwrestle Arai-san. You accidentally stabbed Makima-san, your boss. And now, at the end of the day, you’re even disappointing your family.
Outside the shower, you can hear the buzz of your phone. Your father probably, asking where you are, why you’re late to pick your family up so that they can go see the baseball game. And all you have to say is that you’re just being weak and stupid and pathetic. Even the imagined confrontation makes you want to scream.
“Higashiyama-san?”
You shriek一hadn’t you been alone? Horror immediately follows because you recognize the voice on the other side of the shower curtain.
“M一Makima-san?”
Oh god, she’s going to fire you, or kill you, or punish you. Oh no no no no…
“Higashiyama-san, are you alright? You sound distressed.”
“Please d-don’t fire me,” you wail, mortified. “Please, please, please…”
“Higashiyama-san…”
“I need this job, I need this money, I promise, I promise that I’ll do better, I swear...”
“Kobeni.”
Makima’s commanding voice cuts through your panic like a hot knife through butter. “M一Ma’am?”
“You aren’t in trouble,” Makima’s muffled voice reassures you. “And I would rather not have this conversation while you on the other side of a curtain. Please, finish washing up first.”
Her footsteps quickly recede, terminated by the click of the locker room door. You barely notice it through the deafening thunder of your heartbeat.
Oh no oh no oh no oh no.
You complete your shower in record time, drying yourself vigorously until your skin is rubbed raw and desperately grooming yourself so that your casual clothing looks somewhat professional. You pointedly ignore your phone; you don’t think that you can handle much more stress.
Miss Makima is already waiting when you step outside the changing room, still dressed impeccably despite the late hour. Her poise, her strength, her confidence… she’s so much more than you could ever hope to be. Nevertheless, with hands behind her back, she gives you a slight bow. You. “Are you alright, Higashiyama-san?”
“I一I’m fine, ma’am.” You’re supposed to be fine.
“I see,” Makima says, her expression not shifting from her soft smile. “Walk with me?”
Without waiting for your response, she turns and begins walking down the hallway. You hurry to catch up, your things bundled up in your arms.
“I had been hoping to catch up with the rest of you after the hunt today,” Makima says, her voice quiet. It seems to echo through the cavernous halls of Public Safety. “I already managed to connect with Arai-san and Himeno-san before the end of the workday, but paperwork got in the way. I didn’t think I would be able to talk with you until tomorrow. It’s funny how things work out.”
You nod vigorously, a nervous whine in your throat, because what else are you supposed to say? Your eyes instinctively shift to Makima’s shoulder, where your knife should have rendered her arm inoperable.
Nothing.
That really shouldn’t be surprising. You’re just pathetic, weak Kobeni, but she’s Makima. You’re pretty sure that even Himeno doesn’t have the clearance to know her Devil contracts. Powerful ones probably. Much better than the deal you struck with一
“I apologize,” Makima says suddenly as you both step into the elevator. “It’s after hours and I’m being unbearably rude.” She glances at you, unblinking. “Have you eaten yet? Consider it my treat for taking up your time.”
“I…I…” Your phone buzzes again and your hand twitches instinctively from deeply engrained habit.
“Ah. Do you need to take that?”
“It’s my family.” You wring your hands excessively. “I need to pick them up and drive them somewhere and it’s late and…”
“Do they still need a ride?”
“Yes!” Thank goodness, a way out, even if it will just mean another terrible conversation. “I really should get going…”
Makima’s smile widens. “Oh. Don’t worry, Higashiyama-san. My driver can take care of them for the evening.”
You are so confused. “Makima-san?”
But she’s already pulling out her phone, making a call to a man who sounds large and intimidating and taciturn and telling him to take care of your family for the evening and all the while Makima is pulling you out into the streets of Tokyo through the gravity of her sheer presence, down through winding streets and rain-soaked alleyways to some hole-in-the-wall noodle shop with a neon sign that flickers in the rain.
“Wha…” Your head swings around wildly. Somehow, you’ve ended up with her coat over your shoulders to shield you from the rain, a kindness that you do not deserve in the slightest. “Makima-san, where are we?”
“One of the best ramen restaurants in Tokyo,” your boss replies calmly. “The owners owe me a favor.” She turns to a cheerful looking old man who vigorously shakes your hand. “Is our booth ready?”
“It is! Thank you again for your patronage, Makima-chan. You really should be eating more, getting meat on those bones,” he playfully scolds her.
Makima… chan?
You are so confused. You don’t even have enough mental capacity left to be scared.
For all that Makima intimidates you, this restaurant is quaint and quiet. All wood and plaster and worn grayscale paintings that crowd around you in a claustrophobically cozy way. The smell of broth and noodles and cooking meat makes you salivate. You can’t remember the last time that you’ve had someone cook for you, it’s not like you could ever afford to一
“Get whatever you would like,” Makima reassures you. “I’m paying.”
Thank goodness.
You order a tonkotsu ramen and some sake, while Makima requests her usual. Whatever that might be. It’s all normal, exceedingly mundane in appearance, and yet the terrified quiver in your throat doesn’t go away.
“Are you firing me, Makima-san?”
Makima tilts her head. “Why would I do that?”
Are you going insane? “I一I stabbed you. Hurt you on the job, almost got everyone killed. Almost got you killed!”
“It’s alright. I forgive you.”
“You shouldn’t!” You barely keep yourself from screaming and still feel yourself collapsing into a black hole of shame, a blubbering mess, a tsunami of cowardice. “I’m t-terrible at this job. I kill Devils and… and I almost get everyone killed and I’m gonna die.” A hysterical laugh escapes you. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m gonna die without ever even going to college and still be a coward.”
Pathetic, stupid, weak Kobeni. You should have become a sex worker instead. Men were supposed to pay good money for girls who cried a lot, right? Not like you’re useful for anything more.
At this point, Himeno-senpai probably would have gone into another one of her long-winded inspiring speeches and tried to hype you up. Instead, Miss Makima takes a sip of her sake, and you follow suit, draining your whole glass dry. The burn distracts you from how you’re trying to sob your way into unconsciousness.
“Higashiyama-san,” Makima says after you’ve run out of words. “Kobeni. Do you want to be a Devil Hunter?”
“No,” you whimper, much to your eternal shame. “B-but I have no other choice.”
“No choice? What do you mean?”
“My family needs… needs the money,” you stutter. “My parents are set on my older brother going to college, and since he’s the gifted one, they made me get a job. Either sex work or…or…” You start crying again. It’s incredibly pathetic. You’re lucky that this booth keeps all the other customers from witnessing your despair. “It just feels like I don’t have any control over my life.”
Why does everything feel cold all of a sudden?
You wipe away the tears and snot dripping from your face, unable to meet Makima’s gaze. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
“I disagree.”
You can’t bring yourself to respond. Across the table, Makima leans forward.
“Kobeni-san, do you know what everyone in this world fears, above all else?”
You shake your head numbly.
“Control. The lack of it. The threat of its imposition.” Makima tilts her head. Has she even blinked? “There are two types of people in this world, I’ve found. Those who respond to losing control by freezing up. Paralysis, stasis. Doing the same thing over and over like a broken record. And then there are those who, when threatened by a loss of control, act. They act out, they fight. Maybe they run, but they still do something, all until the bitter end.”
You swallow wetly. “Oh.”
“You are a coward,” Makima says, “but you are also one of those rare people who act. You are strong, Kobeni-san. You will always have a choice. All that matters is whether you’re capable of making it.”
Her voice floats around your head like bits of barbed wire. “H-how?”
Makima smiles. “I can’t do all the work for you. But if you do decide to leave Public Safety, you have my full support.”
“A-And if I don’t?” You stutter.
In the gloomy interior of the booth, Miss Makima’s golden eyes seem to glow. “If you decide to stay with Public Safety, Kobeni-san, then I will do everything in my power to help you achieve the control that you so desperately crave.”
You aren’t worth the shit that Makima scrapes off her heel, much less the attention that she is giving you now. You’ve never been worth much of anything really.
So why does this feel so… nice?
The door to your both slams open with a bang, causing you to scream. It doesn’t even phase the chef, who places a bowl of absolutely incredibly smelling ramen in front of you. Hunger overtakes your embarrassment as your stomach rumbles.
“Think about it,” Makima says, and your head swings back up to see her back on her side of the table (had she really been so close before?). With a precise click of her chopsticks, she slurps up a mouthful of noodles. “Whatever path you choose, I will support you wholeheartedly. I always take care of one of my own.”
Wordlessly, you nod, and focus on filling your mouth with ramen instead of the tears that desperately want to fall again. At the very least, you can preserve some tattered shred of your dignity.
It’s the best ramen that you’ve ever had. You cry some more anyway.
Thankfully, Makima doesn’t comment because she’s much better with people than you. You don’t think you could handle the embarrassment.
You’ve barely stepped out of your vehicle before your work phone rings.
“Makima! What is happening?!” The Board, or rather, one of their sycophants. Their sniveling voices have been burned into your brain by this point and you hate it. “Tokyo is descending into anarchy!”
“The situation is under control,” you reply, your voice level as you stride down the street. Public Safety agents fan out around you, efficiently securing the perimeter and rescuing civilians as per their training. You’ve been rehearsing for this scenario for months, but nothing compares to the cataclysmic potential of the Typhoon and the Bomb playing out before you. “It appears that the Soviets have made their move and sent a hybrid from their Vysotniki unit.”
The sycophant simpers as one of the old men instructs him on the other side of the line. “T-The Revolution Devil?”
“No. They haven’t escalated that far. It appears to be the Bomb as well as the Typhoon Devil.”
“Those two… the Soviets must be eager for war! This cannot stand!” Your superiors take far too much time to deliberate, during which you rapidly climb the fire escape to a taller building for a better vantage point. Gale-force winds blow your hair askance. “Is their target known?”
Your contract with the prime minister dictates that you speak only the truth to him and his representatives. However, as you’ve learned over the years, the truth is a malleable thing. “I can’t say with one hundred percent certainty. They appear to be targeting Public Safety specifically, perhaps as a prelude to some larger plan.”
“Damn,” your superior swears. “Either way, this entire fiasco is a disaster. Clean up your mess, Makima, and soon.”
The call ends abruptly and with more than a little relief, you clip your phone back onto your belt. Without the distraction, your senses come alive with the stench of blood and cordite, the hurricane of buildings and fireworks, the cacophonous thunder of war. Through it all, your subordinates fight valiantly to save as many lives as they can. And in the center of it all…
Denji. Chainsaw Man. Barely a speck on the horizon as he fights for his life, supported by the rest of the special unit. Still alive, much to your relief.
You had done your best to avoid this outcome, yet planned for it all the same. It was inevitable that foreign powers would learn that your division possessed the Chainsaw; indeed, part of your reason for transferring Denji to Division Four was to minimize the risk of leaks (not that it worked in the long run). For all that your powers of control are… diminished compared to your past incarnations, you’ve been very effective at removing infiltrators in the past, and Conquest casts a long shadow over the rest of the world. People fear you, and that fear has done wonders to protect Denji from the more frivolous attempts on his life.
That same fear has emboldened others, however, despite your many machinations over the years to preempt them. You have no idea what madness has possessed the Soviets other than the juvenile logic of realpolitk, and were it not for the Devils under their thumb, you would not hesitate to burn the entirety of that wretched government.
Unfortunately, the terms of your position limit you, and you’ve taken pains to swear off the dreams of tyranny that so seduced your other self. You are Conquest, yes, but that doesn’t mean you cannot try to be better. How lonely it must be, to stand alone atop the world (you would know—you have known it your whole life). Part of you, the human part of you, pities Chainsaw Man for that. Pities your sisters, the other horsemen, locked into their own little demesnes.
“M-Miss Makima! Is everything alright?”
Ah. You’ve been wearing a rather severe frown and dawdling when you should have been acting. Turning on your heels, you smile softly at Kobeni where she has huddled behind you, bracing herself against the winds. Your second, ostensibly, though you’ve ended up training her more than actually working with her.
“Just figuring out the best move, Kobeni. Denji and the others are doing the best that they can. If I act carelessly, they might… break.”
Bad choice of words, Makima. They aren’t things.
“Oh gosh,” Kobeni whimpers, her sad eyes fearful as she looks up at the storm. Scalding light illuminates our faces as an entire skyscraper goes up in an explosive conflagration. “Will Denji b-be alright? This is too much!”
“He will be,” you say with absolute conviction, because he’s Chainsaw Man and more importantly he’s Denji, and you’ve done your best to build him up as strong as you can. Kobeni doesn’t hear you, of course, drowned out by the howling winds and her own panicked sobs, and you take a moment to doff your coat and wrap her up. You’re terrible at comforting people, but somehow, this seems to help. “Be a dear and hold this for me, Kobeni?”
Tie flapping in the wind, you turn to face the Typhoon Devil. That damnable baby has been far too elusive over the years and now, face-to-face with its infernal tantrum, you feel something close to anger well up inside you. How dare it intrude on you and yours. You could practically fly into a rage.
But you are still Conquest, and it’s with impeccable composure that you raise one arm towards the Devil and point at it with a finger gun.
“Bang.”
The storm breaks with an abrupt silence, the howling winds suddenly filled with blood. It’s a veritable tsunami, a sanguine flood that blossoms overhead before falling to earth with a red downpour. Some of the blood catches in your mouth, tasting of metal and seawater.
Reaching down, you pull a small radio off your belt. “This is Makima. The Typhoon Devil has been eliminated. Teams One through Six, move in to provide immediate relief to civilians. Teams Seven and Eight, establish a perimeter around the Bomb and the Chainsaw. Let them fight.”
Your subordinates begin their flurry of confirmations, but your attention is cut short by Kobeni’s abrupt cry. “Miss Makima, watch out!”
You turn, too slow for it to matter, but Kobeni is already there, her knife slashing out to deflect a blade aimed right for your head. The force of the clash sends her flying backwards, and its only your quick reaction, grabbing her by the collar, that prevents her from flying off the roof. Your other hand erupts into blackened metal, chains flying, deflecting strikes, as you parry nearly thirty lethal blows in half as many seconds.
Not the Bomb. No, that clash is still happening at your back, and as you pick up a new unfamiliar scent, a distant explosion illuminates the silhouette of your assailant. They are thickly-clothed in a manner that should be cumbersome, every inch of skin covering in writhing scarves and rags. Blood-shot eyes peer out from a dark slit, assessing your unphased expression.
“Who are you?”
Your assailant doesn’t respond. Another flurry of blows launches forth, rubble turned into projectiles, rot, blood. You meet it head-on with your chains, trying to get some distance between Kobeni and this new assailant. They don’t smell of Russia, ice and cigarette smoke and rotting viscera. But you don’t have time to consider the implications, not with your hunter on the line. You hate surprises. You didn’t predict this.
You should have.
Your opponent shifts their head, a crunching twist that somehow manages to sound gleeful. “You’re losing your touch, Control.”
You don’t respond. Behind you, Kobeni whimpers, and the vague approximation of devil flesh that passes for your heart drops like a stone.
You hadn’t meant to get Higashiyama so attached to you.
It’s galling to admit. Manipulation is a part of your very being. Exploitation and domination and all the subtler forms of coercion, those are your calling cards. How could you not realize that you were cultivating genuine affection in your subordinate? How had you failed to realize that you were some of the only positive reinforcement that she had received in years?
Morality. Your damnable sense of morality. Your attempt at doing the right thing blinding you to what you were actually doing.
Stupid. Incompetent. Nobody can ever know how thoroughly you’ve fumbled the ball. And now you have a cowardly devil hunter/aspiring college student who wants to impress you instead of take care of herself.
Troublesome. You’ll keep her alive. Somehow.
“No words?” The assassin laughs, and you visibly frown. “That’s so unlike you.”
You need information. More importantly, you need to regain the upper hand.
“Tell me, are you the one responsible for all this trouble,” you ask, tilting your head. “The Vysotniki shouldn’t have been here. They certainly shouldn’t have known so much about D一about the Chainsaw. I covered my tracks against the Russians, but you...” You smile faintly. “You aren’t one of their hounds at all, are you?”
“And you?” the assailant spits virulently. You blink, surprised, as something shifts beneath their rags. “You always were a traitorous bitch, Conquest. I would’ve expected you to try and come around, finish the rest of us off. I could deal with that. But to go and play human with that filthy mutt?!”
There’s a lot you could say in response to that, if only you had any idea what they were talking about. “My name is Makima. Not Conquest.”
They snarl. “I. Don’t Care.” Each word is punctuated by another brutal strike, each possessing the monstrous strength of a powerful devil. Even so, you’re hardly on the back foot here. You’re learning their patterns with every exchange, your footwork more and more assured. This is pointless, the assailant should have retreated after their assassination strike failed, so why are they keeping… you…
Busy.
Oh no.
“My apologies, but I’m afraid that we’ll have to finish this another time.” You can’t even savor their confusion before your hand raises in a mock gun and pulls the trigger. Not nearly enough to kill, not with how hastily you aimed, but still enough power to buy you some space. Then you’re sparing the assailant no more thoughts as you turn around and move, scooping up an insensate Kobeni in your arms and leaping off the roof.
Someone wanted your attention fully occupied during this pivotal moment. Another player.
You can only hope that you aren’t too late.
Schemes within schemes.
You’re not used to being on the other side of the table, your hand missing all the cards. These past few weeks since the Soviet ploy, you’ve been obsessively tearing apart the encounter, trying to figure out what you missed. What idiot has been messing around with you and yours. What that distraction was meant to accomplish.
You still have no idea.
It’s not a good feeling. You really want to kill someone. The assassin preferably, but the trail has gone cold after running through half a dozen innocent, completely unaware catspaws. Someone has managed to figure out your newfound sense of morality, apparently, and how you would prefer not to violate some arbitrary human line.
But you can stress yourself about your personal failings another day. Right now, you only have eyes for the dark-haired Russian girl sitting across your desk, completely stone-faced.
“Tell me,” you say, “would you prefer that I call you the Bomb, or Reze?”
“Whatever you need from me,” the girl says meekly. It’s an act, of course, but perfectly executed—her skills are impressive. You almost can’t tell how scared she must be to stand in your presence. It’s a testament to Denji’s bizarre charisma that he has convinced her to stand in front of you today. No doubt, she was inundated with stories about your power before her deployment.
And that is the rub, isn’t it? Her deployment. Her previous employers, the Soviets. The best manipulations allow the target to approach of their own volition, and for all of your talents, Denji has reached the Bomb in a way that you never could. She has defied the Soviets for him, tried to get him to run away, but young love hasn’t proven enough to break the familial bonds that Denji has formed under your purview.
Thus trapped between a rock and hard place, the Bomb has come to you, without your having to lift so much as a finger. It’s convenient, but not ideal.
“I have no need for tools,” you reply, clasping your fingers together.
“...Reze, then.”
Good. A crack in the façade, a fondness for the name that Denji knows. You can work with this.
“Let me be blunt then, Reze,” you say, and the look that she sends you way suggests that she calls bullshit. “Denji has vouched for your character and I believe him. For all his shortcomings, he has what some people would call a good heart.”
Reze smiles faintly at that. An actual smile, still guarded, but present. The chink in her armor. Were you a different Conquest, you might have exploited it. “He does.”
You nod. “I have many strong hunters and Devils in my division. I consider them coworkers. My employers consider them weapons.” I make direct eye contact with her. “Make no mistake, my employers will wish to make you into another weapon. Trust me on that.”
The implication goes unsaid, but the girl understands it all the same. Excellent.
“Which is why I would like to offer you my patronage, my protection, in a more unofficial capacity.” You slide an envelope of papers across the desk. A fake identity. “In less than a month, Kishibe Denji and Hayakawa Power will begin attendance at Yokosuka High School. I suspect that it will be difficult for them, on multiple levels. It would be convenient if they had another student present to be their friend.”
Reze shuffles through the papers. She looks shell-shocked, hollow. It’s a terrible look on her.
“So,” you say, adopting as genial a smile as you can manage. “What do you think, Reze Sokolov?”
Her fake name, the one labeled in the documentation. A silent question as well: is this who you are?
Green eyes flicker with explosive intensity as Reze Sokolov meets your gaze. “Da. I accept.”
She still doesn’t trust you, but that’s fine. Like all things, it will come with time.
For now, you manage to complete Reze’s paperwork and pass her off to the appropriate parties in short-order. Off the books, of course. Your superiors would be delighted to have something like the Bomb on call, and for the sake of your plans, you cannot allow that to happen.
“Ehhh, Makima-san? Do you got a moment?”
You finishing signing the last of the paperwork on your desk and look up at your ajar office door. Reze has long since departed, but you had remained behind. After the incident with Reze, you were expecting this conversation. “I do. Please, come inside, Denji.”
Denji slouches his way inside, oddly hesitant for a boy of his exuberance. Over a year and a half with Hayakawa, and two years with Kishibe, and yet he hasn’t completely shed the irreverence with which he approaches everyday life. Even so, he seems to stand taller, healthier. As you’ve been seeing more and more often these days, he wears his disheveled school uniform in lieu of the typical Public Safety outfit.
At the very least, he appears to have recovered quickly following the Russian kidnapping attempt. He has a good heart, and you are not talking about Pochita.
Without prompting, Denji plops down in the chair on the opposite side of your desk. He seems hesitant to speak, another oddity, and you pretend to look out the window at the evening Tokyo skyline as he gathers his thoughts.
“What can I help you with, Denji?” You ask when he finally seems composed.
Denji crosses his arms, defiant. “This is probably gonna sound stupid, but…” He bites his lip with those sharp Devil teeth of his. “I don’t wanna do this anymore, Makima-san.”
You raise an eyebrow. “This?” You have a guess as to what he means, but you know better than to assume.
“Being a Devil Hunter,” Denji says after a long pause. “There’ve been fewer Devils around, y’know?” You do. It’s been part of your long-running plan, making Division Four the best that it can be. “And I’m not havin’ enough time for my stupid homework. I know you can’t just let go of another Devil and all that, but…”
Typical male machismo, complaining about paperwork to mask his varied reasons and fraught mental state. You’ve been obliquely aware of this confrontation brewing through Aki’s reports, through your distant monitoring of the Bomb, through the breakroom conversations between your subordinates when they think you cannot hear them.
It’s not a surprise. Not when you’ve been working towards this outcome for years.
“Does Aki know?”
“Yeah,” Denji admits. “Been talking with him about it for a bit ‘cause he’s smart, y’know. Reze too. They’re both smarter than me.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Yeah, they are,” Denji protests. “So I asked him about it after I talked with Reze, and he told me to talk with ya. So did the old drunk.”
Kishibe did? How surprising.
“I see,” you say. Your fingers don’t move from where you’ve clasped them together. “Well, Denji. I don’t see why we can’t go through with this.”
Denji opens his mouth as though to argue, then freezes. “Wha? Just like that?”
The confusion is palpable; not just his, but those of the people covertly lingering outside your office. Aki, Himeno, the Bomb… All ready and eager to protect Chainsaw Man.
From you. Do they not trust you?
You maintain your smile. “Of course, Denji. Just return all your Public Safety equipment to Hayakawa-san. You can still live with him, with his approval. Your severance payment will be deposited in the appropriate places, but beyond that, it will be as though you’ve never worked here.”
The brightness of Denji’s smile could drown out the sun. With a youthful exuberance, he bounces up from the chair and heads out of your office with a pep in his step. “Alright! Thanks, Makima-san!”
And then he’s gone. Just like Reze. Just like that.
Your office door locks behind him, leaving you alone inside your cavernous office. For a moment, you just sit there, staring at the door. Your hands move automatically, reaching for the hidden compartment in your desk with files that you’ve long since memorized.
After-action report for the Chainsaw Hybrid. Abducted by unknown assailants. Location unknown. Presumed killed in action. Other assorted paperwork describing the non-descript man behind the Hero of Hell.
You know what you have to do. Officially, Kishibe Denji has never been anything more than the outcome of a physical coupling between Division One Hunter Kishibe and an unknown woman. There has never been any connection between him and Chainsaw Man. Your file on Chainsaw Man has similarly been devoid of personal details, but it still exists. A tenuous chain leading back to Denji.
That file sits in front of you now, ready to be replaced with your forged secret documents. Once everything has been filed, there will be nothing connecting Denji to Division Four. He will finally be free.
He won’t be yours.
You stare at the paperwork.
He won’t be yours.
You stare at the paperwork. This has always been part of the plan. Over the past two years, you have only interacted with Kishibe Denji three times. He has no familiarity with you. He has no reasons to include you in his life. You have only ever been his superior on paper. He and Pochita will be free, as you have always intended.
You just need to let him go.
It’s past midnight when you finally step out of your office. You’ve filed all the necessary paperwork and burned the rest. Your steps are carefully measured as you turn off the last of the lights and head out to your car. A generous tip to compensate for your driver’s patience ensures that you have no issues as you return to your Tokyo apartment. The city around you burns with incandescent light, bright and vibrant and alive, striving to pierce the darkened interior of your vehicle.
Your cats all have their complaints as you enter your apartment and lock the door. You dutifully feed them before retiring to your bedroom. It’s a simple chamber, spartan in decoration, a twin-sized bed in the middle of a white-walled room. A glass door opens out onto a balcony facing Tokyo. A change of evening clothes already sits on your dresser.
You don’t own any of this. Japanese law prevents Devils from legally owning property, even those directly under the prime minister’s thumb. At best, your possessions exist on loan, granted at the generosity of the state.
You think about ownership a lot, academically and otherwise. This space has never been yours to share, though you’ve arranged it in exacting detail for an audience that has never seen it. You’re the only person that has ever been in this apartment.
Normally, by this point, you would have gone through your evening routine already. Brushed your teeth, showered, changed into your evening wear, maybe read a book.
You lay down on your bed, unnecessarily wrinkling your dress shirt. You really should get up.
You don’t move.
You need to get up.
You don’t move.
You blindly reach out and grab your stuffed cat, holding it to your chest. It’s a relic of an older time, when the Japanese government sought to manipulate you through a maternal authority figure. Miss Fujimura was a deceptively kind woman, wrinkled, with a backbone made of steel. She raised you in her own house under constant surveillance, and even took the time to decorate a bedroom for a typical prepubescent girl. Young human females often received plush dolls, or so you remembered.
You still have that stuffed cat. You hold it close even though you’ve grown past the appearance of childhood. Something in your chest crunches, wet and hot with distant pain. Your white dress shirt blooms crimson. Your next breath bubbles and you spit out onto your pristine bed sheets.
It’s still not enough. Nothing could be enough to fill this hollow emptiness inside of you, this void that you’re trying to plug with a cheap plush feline. Your body shakes once, twice, and you curl onto your side for no understandable reason. Beneath you, the sheets unfurl into long crimson petals like a budding flower, more poignant with every gasping breath.
Mom?
You don’t have a mother. You remember having a mother.
You lay there for a very long time.