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Himeno was aware she wasn't what most people would describe as a good person. But, hey, that's what made her a good devil hunter, right? A good person would struggle to hack and slash through anything, no matter how inhuman or dangerous it was. A good person thinks before they speak because they have consequences to account for. A good person can't be a devil hunter.
For a long time that had been Himeno's thought process. At least it had been as soon as she bound herself to this career. In all truth, she barely remembered how she got here. It wasn't so scary, in retrospect, at least. The mission had been suicidal from the beginning. There was no doubt about that, it just seemed… better. Dying on terms that were — in some sense — her own, was better than being swallowed up by the outside world before she could even take a breath. There were other folk like her, just as downtrodden and desperate. The perfect saps to be pulled into the arms of some sadistic beast looking to make their own ends meet. Prostitutes, petty criminals, drug mules. That's what people like her were bound to wind up as. Miserable bastards chained to their societal wrongdoings as their only chance of survival. Sad, really. Should be sad, at least.
A few years in such a brutal profession are a better tranquilizer than any anesthetic they'd give you in some overly pristine hospital. One with fluorescent lighting and white walls, as if it's trying to hide the death behind every door with the cleanliness of the exterior. Himeno never was a fan of those places. Ultimately, just as any drug does, the positive effects wear off, and you're back to where you started. Or, in Himeno's case, you're even further back. Every partner she gained and lost pushed her deeper into the miserable hole she dug with her own two hands.
They marched right into their own graves like self-destructive robots — the sort you'd hear about in a messed up piece of science fiction. Unfortunately, well-oiled machines aren't exactly what makes the cut for Public Safety. No, Public Safety needs a mess of bolts and wires they can rebuild to their own liking and discard when no longer needed. Himeno knew this when she signed up. She knew this when she saw her partners die time and time again. She knew because it was why she was here. Himeno didn't long to be rebuilt or rewired, but the promise of destruction signed away by a contract or a handshake was simply too tempting. And then, one day, Himeno forgot.
Maybe it was the day she met Aki. He looked so odd that day. The light in his eyes wasn't the spark of youth or naivete Himeno was so used to, it was more the spark created by the friction of gears turning in a barely functioning machine. The perfect lost child to have kneeling at the feet of Public Safety, already malfunctioning and so willing to be deconstructed for a singular chance at change. But, when Himeno greeted him that day, her new “buddy”, she didn't see a boy ready to be ripped to shreds. She saw a ghost haunting the gangly frame of a teenager. Maybe that's why Himeno didn't want him to die. Of course, she didn't want her previous partners to die either, but with them at least the likelihood was pre-established. Aki was new and strange and so different from Himeno. Maybe she warned him not to die at the hands of devils so that upon the day of her inevitable deconstruction they could be torn apart by Public Safety together. A one-sided suicide pact he'd unwittingly signed up for, knowing the risk of death but not the risk of connection.
You forget a lot when everything is so extreme that normalcy is sickly. The blood doesn't fade, it just coagulates and sticks to you. You start by trying to wash it off — burning rashes into your skin as you scrub and scrub — and one day, as all people do, you accept it. You ignore the way it clings and you keep on pushing. And, so, when more blood is added to that second skin, you don't bat an eye.
Himeno forgot a lot more than just the blood. She grew and her position rose and more blood was spilled, but Himeno was forgetting why she was even doing so. It wasn't a chore, per se, but she no longer found motivation in the self righteous or the personal. She found courage in blindness and willful ignorance. She smoked and told herself it was because she wasn't going to live long anyways. She wouldn't reach an age where her tongue would grow warped from the nicotine or her lungs would collapse within her chest, and so she had nothing to fear. But Himeno didn't smoke just because there were no foreseeable repercussions, she smoked because it gave her the sting of humanity she always craved, in a way.
It wasn't like having her eye removed for a deal with a devil or her leg slashed open in battle. That doesn't happen to normal people. That happens to devil hunters. It happens to the downtrodden and desperate. And perhaps, when she first flicked open that lighter, it had been some fun house imitation of the life she could have lived. Rebellious and not disregarding consequences for the lack of their existence but for their lack of relevance. If Himeno were born a different person, or maybe just even on a different day, she wouldn't be forgetting, she'd just be unaware in the first place. Ignorance isn't always bliss, but, by God, Himeno thought it was.
Himeno would like to say her reasoning behind pressing that first cigarette into Aki's hand — like a warped passing of a torch — was derived purely from her wishing to share the normalcy she craved with Aki. However, even in her most addled mental states, Himeno was aware of her selfishness, even if that self reflection only dwelled within the deepest reaches of her gut, muted and drowned with cheap beer and something far more primal — a curdling scene of wrongness. It was a sickly sensation, and so, Himeno neglected it. She let the illness fester inside her until she felt more like an infected wound than a person. No harm, no foul, as they say. Himeno was going to be long dead before she would ever need to reach her hands into the raw, tender territory of her stomach. On rare, disturbed days, Himeno was thankful for that fact.
Himeno didn't pity Aki, not exactly. She knew he was as capable as they came, a man with more sense than sensation. Himeno also knew that would be what killed him.
Cigarette smoke clung to Aki like the world's worst cologne. Even during times Himeno would wrinkle her nose and poke fun at the man, it felt so glorifying to know her influence had reached him.
That glory always turned into white-hot self resentment, followed by a flick of ash or the clinking of a shot glass.
The letters were stupid. Himeno knew they were stupid. She wrote them anyway. They would be a legacy that would outlive her, as humiliating of a legacy as that would be. At least, in that case, Himeno would be more than clouds of cigarette smoke, drunken nights and hungover mornings. She could mean something, maybe. Even if Himeno could place no meaning to herself, she was sure Aki could. He was smart like that — sweet, too. The kind of guy to clutch and try to nurture a bouquet out of pure sentiment, even if the flowers would always wilt. The kind of man who weeped in private and clutched scraps of simplicity like they'd be his savior. An idiot, in Himeno's eye.
Himeno didn't lie, nor did she like to, but somewhere in her brain was lodged a deceptive sense of purpose. The less logic to justify it, the more painful and present it became.
Himeno wondered if Aki would still smoke when she inevitably kicked the bucket — if he'd still smell like the self-destructive spiral she became. A constant reminder of a love she felt that neither party could grasp as anything more than a perversion of responsibility.
What a shame, it all is. Himeno would say sorry — she should say sorry for all she's done and caused. Too bad it wouldn't be the truth.