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warnings : foul language . . .
( from here on out, this will not apply to csm's original plot )
一 • 🥮 • 一
Y/N was tired. So, very tired. After constantly dealing with Power and Denji's uncontrollable bickering, her head pounded, and the aches in her body only seemed to worsen. Throbbing erratically, she could barely focus on her missions, much less her health.
Her skin felt dry and cold. The lack of color in her face, and the sickly pallor decorated aimlessly on her body left her feeling as if her string of life was oh so close to snapping. Not that she'd complain about that.
The gloves tightly fitted onto her hands lay limp and loose, constantly needed to be tugged up every time she moved. Weakly moving about was now a habit, and caused many unrelenting stares to bore holes into her already weary mind.
She could sense that her flame was months away from puckering out, flitting lifelessly, as if there was no life to begin with. Her mind rang through her head, circling and reappearing ever so often. A shrill trill played over and over in her ears, deeming her deaf to the world.
It was almost as if things she had considered important were now mindless back round static, buzzing away until her brain decided to tune them out. Even when her teammates attempted to make small talk, she brushed them off, curtly denying any reason they should be worried about her health.
"Instead of wasting your precious time on me, spend it with someone else. We're Devil Hunters, after all. Every time we fight, our string is this much closer to getting snipped off."
Of course, she didn't mean this in such a tart way. All she wished was for them to spend time with their loved ones. They'd all die eventually. Death claims some victims earlier than others, and she most definitely didn't want to be on the receiving side of hate from the victim's family.
So, when she grasped the crinkled paper so tightly she could draw blood, it wasn't out of hate, nor out of disappointment. It was out of despair.
Makima handed it to her with a smile, almost so pure, that it was believable.
"Here, Y/N." She spoke slowly, seemingly explaining it to a young child. "You're going to lead the Special Divisions squad to the area, okay?"
Opening the torn paper with some reluctance in her gaze, she hesitantly unfolded it, bracing herself for the horrors that Makima would display.
Instead, printed out neatly on a paper, was a colorful picture, depicting a large auditorium. Smooth, velvety chairs were laid out carefully, holding some sort of resemblance to assembling a doll house. Deliberate and particular, as they would say.
