Good Evening… Today on Chive O'Clock—
The infamous Bar in Nago—
Clear Spool—
…
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Within the bowels of the intestines and the mountains of corpses strewn across hundreds of hallways painted with blood. Upon the entrails of the deep crimson and the pungent smells of putrid, sickening pools of guts and shredded tissue, the faint footsteps mixed with the unbearable crushing of fragmented bones were heard.
Fear-stricken faces, hands clasped together, and maggot-infested torsos lay out before her. Her figure was unmistakably disfigured, arms going in opposite directions, and limbs far dislocated for comfort. She was slouching against the paper-thin walls, waddling in throbbing pain as her labored breaths and prolonged wheezing were the only signs of life inside this slaughterhouse.
Any furniture of monetary value and any decoration that pleased the eye became nothing more than investigative evidence. Any luxury brought by its pristine quality was the mislabelings of a party gone wrong. Any valid reason to find this establishment livable turned immediately on its head.
Various paintings across time depicted the savagery of human violence. Numerous events leave a haunting reminder of the capacity a human can go through to achieve their goals; psychological and generational trauma brought countries into emotional depravity by the weight of their ancestors. Try as some might to omit these actions to propagate the idea of "peace", the preponderance of lingering signatures about the unknown maleficence held deep inside man's hearts led others into a sense of cynicism, and worse, nihilism.
Horrid acts of murder, assault, harassment, trafficking, torture, and cannibalism are mere examples of the urges man could and had committed to doing for as long as the existence of "free will" was gifted upon them. The embodiment of these sins was the "Id" that was discovered as the primal urges of man, dictating their intrusive thoughts to be acted upon. Many of these twistedness are described as an "itch" or a "voice in their head" that many, not some, fall prey to.
And yet, they only embody the deep-seated desires of man; they only manifest the existence of the unconscious mind; they only promote the insecurities of man; they only concretize these suggestions out of the non-permissiveness to act. The invincible ignorance brings the innocence out of them, excusing them from their sins.
But within this caricature of bloodshed, the paintings of a thousand-thousand corpses were done with intent; the silhouette upon whose actions was of wrath and of vengeance and of choice. Herein lies that bloodlust brought by withering guiltlessness, calcified by the urges laid bare and untamed.
Bare witness to the one whose flesh is tainted with unbridled brutality…
To the one bearing the purest animosity of limitless capability…
And her insurmountable insanity!!!
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beep
Breaking News
"Good evening, and welcome to Chive O'Clock. I am your host for tonight, Mari Tanaka…" She took a deep breath. "Authorities have confirmed one of the most… horrifying mass murders in recorded history. A series of killings occurred across unmanned warehouses—now believed to be dens for criminal activity—totaling an estimated one million victims throughout the city of Nagomi."
Her eyes trailed over the text on the teleprompter. How am I supposed to say this with a calm voice? She shook her head and continued. "Police arrived early this morning following an anonymous tip, only to encounter a scene that has left the investigators in disbelief. Every… compound—covering nearly every corner of each interior—contained completely unrecognizable human remains. Forensic teams report that the victims' DNA is impossible to isolate due to the overwhelming mixture of bodily fluids across every site. However, the dryness of the blood suggests that this… massacre occurred over the span of a week."
Her voice cracked. "Blood spatter analysis reveals a barbaric slaughter far exceeding the known brutality of the notorious Kyushu criminal, Yāoguài. Compared to the Mistwraith sighting in Yokohama last night, this… this is far worse." Beads of sweat formed on her brow. "E-early reports suggest the victims were incapacitated before being attacked, with no signs of forced entry or struggle. Here is the— Oh my God. Oh my fucking God…!"
She gagged, covering her mouth as her face went pale.
"Hurk… hurk… HurUUUUUAAAAAGHAGHUUUUUUH!!"
The broadcast abruptly cut to body-cam footage of a heavily censored scene. Little could be shown on live television, but the unmuted studio audio revealed:
"Blarghh… WHO THE FUCK WOULD SHOW THAT?!! What the fuck— Haaa… haaaa… haaa… BLREAUHGHH—"
beep
[TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES PLEASE STAND BY]
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Elsewhere...
"Haa… haaa…"
Kabuki both augments and aids the movement of her ravished body, done through puppeteering each muscle group, whilst ensuring no damage is inflicted on the body due to whiplash. On account of her stamina teetering on its end, her balance stands on a single string. Even on the lowest of outputs, regardless of pain tolerance, the body would collapse when overworked.
Her view of the alleyway ahead feels wobbly; the walls seem to belly-dance, and the people nearby are just as warped. A loud ringing pierces her ears, and each footstep feels as though her body is weighed down by a heavy iron ball. For a moment, everything was flipped sideways, and her head hit the concrete wall. Then everything went black.
…
At the same time…
"Have ya heard—?" a man asked, closing the door behind him.
"Dude, we just ate," a girl replied, burping afterward. "I don't wanna talk about some fucked-up shit while I'm full."
"Well, I wasn't gonna talk about it," he sighed. "But now that you mentioned it… eh, never mind."
"See? Now that whole luxury stuff feels like absolute, abysmal dog shit." She shrugged. "It ruins the mood and the mouth feel."
The two eventually crossed the pedestrian crossing and turned a corner into an alleyway. Unfortunately, however, it was that alleyway.
It was as if the devil itself had become their number-one advocate: the red, humanoid silhouette that had once been slumped against the blood-stained concrete began to stand.
The blood. The sheer amount of blood covering her body made it impossible to recognize any features she might have once had—any clothes she was wearing, or any item she might have been holding. Yet what the two did recognize was a concept ingrained in the mind of every living being.
Survival is defined as the state or act of continuing to live or exist, typically in spite of an accident, ordeal, or difficult circumstance. The word is often used in the context of prey encountering its predator—situations that starkly outline the utter superiority of one entity over another. They were not mistaken in believing this situation was no different. Alas, the context clues suggested otherwise.
Perhaps they felt a tinge of comfort knowing it was criminals who had been assaulted and battered. Perhaps it was a relief that they were not criminals, not the ones being thrashed. And perhaps—by the smallest of margins—they could even feel thankful for her deeds.
But no songs of praise escaped them. No voices of affirmation followed. Nothing came out at all.
Their bones were locked in place like rebar set in cement. Their eyes no longer registered the figure drawing closer; their hands trembled like a seizure, their mouths foamed, and what should have been screams were smothered by terror before they could form.
In truth, they expected death to welcome them with open arms. They—and everyone else who had heard the news—felt as though the culprit could be standing at their doorstep at any moment. Children ran to their parents for solace, even as those caretakers felt no reassurance stepping outside themselves. It was like a hand reaching into their stomachs and twisting, squeezing until the pain became real. The peace that once felt genuine had become a ruse.
However…
These delusions of manic distress were false.
The girl simply waddled past them, leaving a trail behind as she pressed herself toward the next corner—and turned away.
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…
Meanwhile…
"Welcome to DWT Pharmacy. What can I get for you, sir?" asked the man behind the counter.
"Uhh… how much are painkillers?" the customer asked.
"Well, how many are we talking about? A blister pack? A pill bottle? Or a travel—WHAT THE FUCK?" The man immediately bolted.
"H-hey! Don't be so—" He glanced behind him. "…rude."
His next words were replaced by a hasty retreat, leaving the bloodied girl alone.
…
Huh? I… blacked out again.
She tried to clear her vision, but the red filter wouldn't fade. Her stomach had been aching for days, and her throat felt drier than ever. She couldn't feel the searing pain anymore—and if she could smell herself, she would have been disgusted by it.
Her body dragged itself toward the counter, then collapsed into a crawl toward a shrink-wrapped package. Inch by inch, she dug her frail nails into the plastic and pulled a bottle of water free, slumping back against the shelf as she poured it over her crimson-stained body.
It felt like wandering a desert for days and finally finding an oasis. The relief alone was enough; to be greedy—to steal everything—would only leave a bitter taste in her mouth.
Minutes passed as she emptied bottle after bottle. She was hydrated now, capable of moving again. Still, the vertigo lingered, and the wobbliness remained. She braced herself with a glass cane and hobbled back toward the shelves.
Safe to say, she wasn't glad to hear the faint screaming outside.
…
Her body enjoyed a brief moment of respite before her stamina wore thin, and she stumbled clumsily into the wall rack. Her shaking hands scrambled for a steady grip on the medicine. Most of it came in liquid vials that nearly skittered off the shelf, saved only by thin tendrils of glass catching them mid-fall; thankfully, most were pills.
Her bleary vision wasn't sharp enough to make out anything at a distance, but she had just enough clarity to recognize what she needed. Inside her dizzy mind, she turned the list into a temporary mantra:
Antihistamines.
Tranexamic acid.
Opioids.
Repeat. Remember. Repeat. Need… food.
She was back to crawling — dragging herself toward the food section. While most drugstores didn't offer restaurant-level meals, they made up for it with shelves of ready-to-eat canned goods. Her hands were already full just trying not to drop the medicine, and even with hydration, the ulcer would soon present a different problem — one she didn't want to deal with.
…
Minutes passed. Torn packets of cup noodles lay scattered among empty plastic containers, crushed bottles, and a leaning tower of tin cans from various brands. The girl munched and stuffed her mouth with food; with each gulp she forced down, her body heated, releasing faint trails of steam.
This should be the minimum, at the very least…
Yet still, for a girl with virtually no combat experience, she had managed to accomplish such feats. But for what reason? Why attempt a solo performance against a choir? What could a single individual do against centuries of effort, research, experience, and power?
A war existed—an eternal war. It could be likened to a "divorce" between two lovers. Not lovers in a romantic sense, but concepts once united under a single banner, now torn apart by belief and perspective.
One was the Black Empress. She wielded the power of Prisma—magic so potent that even its most basic spells could render a commoner into nothing more than sheets of paper. Though initially ostracized for her status, that disdain soon transformed into reverence for her ability to lead.
The other was the White Emperor. A leader, first and foremost, but a cynical one. He believed magic to be a catalyst for evil, and as the enforcer of order, his hypocrisy drew the two into an argument that would never end.
Subjectivity still existed. It was not that either was unentitled to their opinions, nor that refusing to see the other's perspective diminished their intelligence. Rather, their clash had led—indirectly—to the loss of countless lives. Conflict always persists in a world of reason. Yet both mistook the other's vision of peace for mere quiet.
At the center of it all stood the Crown. No one knew its origin. Only two truths were certain: it was divided into five pieces, and collecting all five would allow the bearer to grant any wish they desired.
To realize one's whims through a relic that bypassed struggle, erased the need for critical thought, and justified itself through personal reasoning alone—it was a cheap answer.
…
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"Look, Yoshioka…" Hisanmi said.
Yoshioka was crouched nearby; the sickly man slowly sat up in his bed. "What you have is something special."
"My power…" she muttered.
"Well… sort of," he replied, prompting the girl to raise an eyebrow. "But listen."
"What those two believe in isn't necessarily dogma we should follow blindly. At the same time, you can't simply refute it altogether. You need to try every other shoe before you can start making one. You have to think things through again and again. That's what I do every day when I go to work."
He paused, gesturing for her younger sister to hand him the glass of water on the bedside table, which she did. He took a few gulps before continuing.
"Soon enough, we'll have our own lens to see the world through—unbiased."
"You say that, yeah, but…" She glanced at him. "Couldn't you have picked a better time to tell me this? It's already late, and I'm heading to bed."
"Ahh, shucks…" he chuckled hoarsely. "Sorry…"
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Yoshioka was a mere byproduct of this war. Perhaps the one who might end it. Or perhaps just one of the many who tried—and failed.
…
She remained still in her spot. The cluttered trash had been organized into multiple bags. Pills rested in her hand before she swallowed them. She grabbed a nearby drink, popped the can, and took a sip.
Ever since I caught wind of the Red Hand, no reliable information exists. Most gangs are there just to throw me off—always when I'm about to get some semblance of a lead.
She stood and walked toward the rightmost aisle, bending down to reach a set of clothing packaged in plastic.
They're looking for a blonde-haired individual. Then again, if these lunatics are just randomly moving from city to city in search of them, it'll only lead to more casualties.
She moved to another aisle, one closer to the middle of the store from where she had entered. A bar of soap, a bottle of shampoo, a bottle of alcohol, and countless gauze bandages.
…
She was inside a room lined with wider shelves stacked with cardboard boxes. She laid out a thin barrier of glass along the floor, shaping it into a basin, with a funnel leading into a tube connected to a showerhead. Turning a gallon of water upside down, she removed the cap, creating a makeshift bath.
At this very moment, someone out there could be suffering. People could be losing what matters most to them.
Soap mixed with reddish water streamed off her clothed-less body, steam slowly lifting it into vapor. Her eyes reflected in the glass like a mirror.
I have to find the Red Hand—and my brother—as soon as possible. I won't let anyone else become another "me."