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You meet her on a Thursday in April. It’s been raining recently, and the constant drizzle stains the dank alleyways with the scents of wet cardboard and rotting garbage.
Your life up until this point has been a series of disappointments, one after the other falling like domino pieces. You live it reluctantly and out of necessity: brushing your teeth only when your mouth feels gritty, getting up only when your bladder feels like bursting, showering only when your odor becomes tangible. The only thing pushing you forward is the abstract notion of revenge, but even that is unclear, not palpable enough to motivate you to do anything.
You spend your mornings sleeping and your evenings in a drunken haze kissing sweat-slicked strangers in the pits of a shitty bar. Each swipe of your tongue against their teeth is a search for unspoken words that might linger between gums and bone- a reason to live. Your hunt is never successful, and all you’re left with is the aftertaste of alcohol and a vague feeling of disgust.
You’re bent at a 90-degree angle, hurling your guts out onto pavement when you meet her. Makima is clarity in a ceaseless blur. She lights up the path to vengeance, and the longer you’re in her presence, the closer your destination feels.
You’re looking for a reason to live, and Makima gives you one.
–
There’s a scab between the knuckles of your index and middle fingers. It’s still red, a little raw, the rough crust never fully forming atop the wound because you constantly pick at it. A nervous habit. Still, it’s not self-destructive enough to try and stop.
When Makima hands you the manila folder containing the details for your first mission, you notice her fingers are slim and dainty. They make it seem like she’s never worked a day in her life, which is factually untrue. Her hands are an impossibility, but you suppose it suits her.
They’re a stark contrast against yours, and you can’t help but imagine how they might feel between your calloused palms. You think her touch might feel like water trickling down your spine: smooth and slightly chilling. You want her to slip her fingers under your skin and tear you apart.
Good luck, Makima says.
You look at her, startled, and she smiles coyly, something dangerous in the curve of her lips.
You wonder what your first name would sound like coming from them, how her tongue might wrap around the letters, if she'd chew on the syllables.
It could be hers. If she wanted it.
–
If you think your initial obsession with her will wear off as time passes, you’re wrong. Months pass, and your fixation on Makima only intensifies.
In the depths of your subconscious, you build a temple to worship her. It is a shrine comprised of memories and elusive wisps of scent, sight, and sound. You’ve still never felt her touch, but you take what you can and light it as incense, inhaling the perfume in an attempt to absorb it into yourself.
She humors you.
Makima gets lunch with you once every other month and drinks the coffees you buy for her. She twitches her lips at the awkward jokes you make, congratulates you after a big mission, and promises to fulfill your every wish.
Makima offers love in her cupped palms, arms outstretched as an open invitation to lap at it. You crawl towards her, salivating, ready to surrender your devotion and loyalty as insufficient compensation.
Is it really love? The hungry gleam in your eyes is too bright, blinding you from the truth. It may be medicine or it may be poison. You sit back on your heels and wait for the effects to kick in.
–
Why are you here again?
It’s easy to forget your original goal when you’re sinking into the yellow oblivion of Makima’s eyes.
She reminds you, though. Makima reminds you of your goal, how she will help you accomplish it, and why you should keep following her.
You’re lucky you have her to lead you down the right path.
–
You witness her capacity for destruction in what you don’t yet realize is your final mission.
You're told that this is a normal mission. The devil your team has been assigned is high-ranking, but nothing you can't handle, Makima says.
But you're coming to terms with the fact that life goes wrong more often than not. You aren't as strong as you think you are, and neither are your teammates. But Makima is strong- this you know. She will save you. You push a bloody, cracked radio to an injured member of your team and run off to help the rest of your squad. You don't need to tell him what to do.
Hours later, half of your squad lies dead on the floor, slimy intestines hanging out of their mangled corpses. There’s a large gash in your side where blood is oozing out, seeping into your white starched shirt. Adrenaline still pumps through your system, numbing you from the grief and pain you know you should be feeling.
There is a loud ringing in your ears and you feel like choking on the dust that coats your face and lungs. You sit on a pile of debris, blotches of rusty blood smothering the concrete rubble. Hopefully, it’s not yours.
Makima appears before you, a divine contrast to the bleak destruction.
Why?, you want to ask, but the question sticks to your throat. You should feel horrified, but the emotion just won’t come. In her presence, trust and adoration strangle opposing sentiments until they turn from feeling to mere suggestion. She can save you. She will save you.
Makima smiles serenely as if she can read your mind and knows every thought running through your head.
She crouches by your side and comes close enough that you feel her breath against the shell of your ear.
Say you’ll give me your all, she murmurs.
You don’t hesitate.