"Just perfect," Butcher One says. "Perfect. Everything is going according to plan, four-eyes. Don't chicken out! That slippery idiot just handed you the keys to his empire. Make sure everything goes as it's supposed to, and then hand him over to the blonde. Or better yet, give him to me. I'll show you how it's done."
"Indeed," a new voice in my head joins in. "That country boy Coil thinks he understands pain, understands suffering and torture. Let me make it clear, it's nothing but an illusion. With his power, it's possible to trap him in a branching probability—whichever way, he ends up on the metal table. He can't reverse time, and in the long run, he will always lose."
"Huh, that's the first time I've heard you," I think. "Which number are you? And who are you, anyway? Why should I listen to you?"
"That's Five," Edward answers. "Butcher number five… He's the reason we're called the Butcher line at all."
"I thought it was Butcher One who started it all?"
"Butcher One actually called himself Crusher, you know," Edward chuckles. "Up until me, no one suspected his power could haunt his killer."
"It's a damn fine alias—Crusher!" One grumbles. "Because I crush things, that's what I do! I even thought about 'Widowmaker,' but I kill women too, so—yeah…"
"Please be quiet," the new voice—the Fifth—says. Instantly everybody shuts up, which is unusual. Normally talking to the Butchers is a chaotic street market: hands waving, shouting, cursing each other's parents and getting into sex jokes. But this time, silence.
"Taylor." The voice is calm and soft, but there's something in it that demands attention, like a wise, kind adult in your mind. "Listen, Taylor. My colleagues aren't wrong. Coil, alive, is a threat to you. Understand, I'm just a ghostly voice in the new host's mind, but I like how you do things. There's no guarantee the next host will inherit your multitasking with insects, or give us privacy and access to information. I'm invested in your wellbeing, Taylor. Guys like Thomas Calvert—I can spot them from miles off. He thinks he can predict you, control you. It's so simple: you're straightforward, you never finish off the surrendered. You trust those by your side. Don't worry. Do what you have to. When the time comes, I'll tell you what to do. My one request—let me handle him personally. Myself."
"Listen up, ladies and gentlemen Butchers," I think. "That's all well and good, but don't we have more immediate problems? Nobody's bothered that I'm sitting in an attic, watching a cold-blooded murderer and psycho?"
"Big deal," One drawls. "With your powers and us, you can talk and eat Oni Lee alive with your swarm at the same time. Poor bastard doesn't even know what's coming. Let me take over; I'll make him howl and beg!"
"Your talent is unique, Taylor," Five says again. "You're not overwhelmed because of too many tasks. You could administrate, manage, run projects of any scale. You're lost and confused because you're facing an ethical problem. The line that separates a criminal from a citizen. Fighting Lung, sending your bugs against Weld, controlling Bakuda—those all fit under 'self-defense' or 'necessity'. You tell yourself others would be hurt otherwise. But with Coil… you'd kill out of fear and paranoia. Stop lying to yourself, Taylor. You're already a killer. The one who falls into the river is not afraid of rain. Stop looking for excuses."
"Excuses? I killed Lung and thirty-seven others just because he was Lung, and they were ABB, so they were with him," I reply, while tracking Oni Lee's location. 'Location' is all it can be called. He doesn't live in a home, apartment, or even a lair. The infamous cape sleeps in a dump, a real cesspit. Luckily, I don't have to draw bugs in from outside—there are plenty here already. Filthy concrete floors, bare walls, blaring TV, trash everywhere—wrappers, cups, congealed takeout, half-eaten pizza, burgers from Dine-In Tom, sticky puddles of spilled soda. Most surprising? Oni Lee is sprawled on an inflatable couch in full costume: black-clad, demon mask on his face. Knives strapped to leather belts, ninja-to handle peeking from behind, grenades hanging on his hip.
At first, I thought he was waiting for an ambush—got a chill, honestly. Too many people lately can predict my reactions. But then… no. This is just his life: lying on the couch, in costume, watching TV. Sometimes he grabs a slice of pizza, washes it down with Coke, crushes the can and throws it at the wall, and zones out at the screen again.
"Don't make me laugh, Taylor," Five says. "You killed Lung out of fear. You were scared he'd kill you. Since then, you've grown. You're one of us now. Maybe even the strongest—the scariest. Stop hiding from yourself. Humans have been killing each other for two and a half million years."
"Humans also cooperated for just as long. We're social animals," I argue. "You can't survive alone."
"Nobody's against having people," Five replies. "Lisa, your dad, Bakuda, Svara, even Sophia Hess… you can gather your own tribe, your own crew. Anyway, enough for now. Focus on the cape. What do you see?"
"Taking on the mentor role now? Isn't it a little late for that?" I snort.
"It's never too late to learn, Taylor. Did you see how he teleported?"
"Yes." I recall: for a split second Oni Lee appeared next to himself—two of him on the couch, then one turned to gray ash. The other didn't even flinch, still watching some kid's show with clowns and cartoon critters.
"That's his ability. Teleportation; he leaves a clone at the old spot. Usually with a live grenade. Boom!" I say. My bugs have mapped every detail of Oni Lee and his fighting style.
"Observations? The grenade he leaves behind explodes—everything else, gear and body, becomes ash. He's been sitting there for half an hour, eating and drinking, unmoving, never getting up for the bathroom… At the very least, his back should be killing him, bladder full…"
"What's your point?" I frown.
"My point is, your childish idea of 'let's talk it out' won't work. It wouldn't have worked on Lung, wouldn't on Butcher… Bakuda was luck, she's just a frightened country girl. The best tactic here is sting his neck, have your bugs clean the body, and get to more important things—like planning Coil's removal, prepping for the Slaughterhouse Nine, taking the Empire off the board, destroying the Merchants. With your power, just sweep the city, and by lunch there won't be a single cape not on your side—or dead."
"All this from watching him teleport?" I remark dryly. "Why is everyone around me such a genius? Want to share any of your wisdom?"
"What's the point? You'll do as you please anyway. I'll just wait for the chance to say 'I told you so,'" Five says. "And wait for you to realize I was right."
"Hm. Fine, wise guy." I focus. I'm in the attic, two floors above Oni Lee. Plenty of bugs below to kick things off. I'm not at risk, not even in the same room. I need to talk to him—maybe intimidate him. Coil says Oni Lee killed four girls who looked like me, which is worrying. But can I trust Coil's info? Or the PRT's? What if they just want to sic me on him? Need to talk, get the facts, maybe find a compromise. It worked with Bakuda. Not everything needs to end in blood.
I build an insect body double—plenty in the room, even more in the building. I'm traveling light today, no Wasp or Medici swarms, just my emergency reserves and last-ditch weapon—my Kunoichi ant-queens hidden in my hair. Oni Lee isn't Lung or another Butcher; I can handle him…
Explosion! The blast pounds my ears; dust drifts from above, the floor trembles. Every bug in the room is dead or stunned. I can't hear or see what's happening below. I send more—another explosion! The attic shakes, screams from the street. The house is empty, but people are nearby… I hurry, forming humanoid swarms outside, herding civilians away from the danger zone…
Another blast! Damn it. The bugs can't get inside; Oni Lee keeps detonating grenades near himself! But if they're right next to him, how doesn't he blow himself up? Shockwave, shrapnel… Is he immune? Dammit, should have bugged him beforehand.
Too late, I realize bunching all the bugs together was a mistake—I've lost track of him. The thermobaric shock only stunned them, but recovery will be slow. I'm effectively blind—I've lost him!
My Kunoichi queens burst free, scattering. I throw open the floor hatch and drop down. Oni Lee is rampaging with grenades two floors below; I'd better shut this down before anyone gets hurt.
I vault the stair rail, descend to the landing. At the end of the hall, a black figure blocks the light from the window.
"Oni Lee!" I shout as the figure raises an arm. "Stop, we need to talk!"
The figure freezes, and I stop too, hands raised. The start of a dialogue—critical moment. Don't startle or pressure him. He knows I'm the Fifteenth, must be scared—stress, cortisol, adrenaline, hormones spiking… Damn, should have bugged him after all.
"I don't want to hurt you and—" That's when my internal Tactician screams a warning like a flashing red alarm. I barely dodge aside, wrenching Oni Lee's knife hand away—it would have stabbed my kidney. Clinical thought: he aimed to kill, no hesitation. The silhouette in the corridor crumbles to ash, and I block the next knife aimed at my eye, twisting the arm in its socket. A muffled groan from beneath the mask. I lash out with my palm—meant to stun, not kill—and my hand passes through him! Gray ash pours down my arm; a live grenade rolls across the concrete floor…
Boom! I'm thrown aside, manage to cover my face—something hot runs down my cheek. Blood. You bastard!
Turn my head. A thrown knife clangs off the wall and falls. I catch it, whirl and throw it back. The blade pierces Oni Lee's head, shattering the mask, dropping him limp before he turns to ash. Explosion! Roar! I stand tall, feeling hot blood on my cheek, impacts on my shoulder, stomach.
I dash, catch a grenade in the air, and throw it back baseball-style—right into the oni mask. The mask cracks and drops away, revealing Oni Lee's face, his eyes empty, blood trickling from his brow. He mouths something. Ash… grenade… explosion!
"Goddammit!" I snarl, dragging myself from the rubble. "You're asking for it, Oni Lee! Hear me?!" I accelerate, intercept another knife, pin his hand to the wall, crush his throat in one strike, grab a dropped grenade and toss it out the window. Pain pulse behind me—Oni Lee collapses, a formless heap on concrete. Quick step, sudden move—my foot comes down on his head, crushing it like a rotten melon, spraying gray-brown goo with white streaks everywhere. Next!
Kick, hit, twisted arm, open fracture, grenade shoved into a gaping mouth, broken spine, gray ash… A section of wall collapses, sending Oni Lee out onto the street. He raises an arm—another throwing knife sprouts from his eye socket, my return shot. I never miss. Even with my eyes closed, even throwing blind, backwards, upside down, in my sleep—my knives, bullets, grenades always land where I want. Svara's skill—Butcher Fourteen.
"All right, you asked for it, Oni Lee!" I shout. "You had a chance to live, but you chose this. You think you can fight me because you're a teleporter?"
I watch him jump again. He sticks to his pattern—teleport behind and attack with a knife; if that fails, leaves a grenade and jumps again. Over and over.
"Let's see." I can feel anger boiling in my chest. "Bring it on, Demon of Nightmares."
He hurls a knife at me—but now we're outside, bugs everywhere, I see the whole fight at once. Another Oni Lee forms behind me, raising a knife, while the one in front still exists, still reaches for another grenade, pulling the ring. And another—he's on the roof above! That's how he keeps dodging—there's always one or two extra. I fight two, he's got three, four at once. The clones don't last long—never more than three seconds, but maybe that's because I always destroy them. People think they vanish on their own, but what if… they don't?
I analyze everything—tactician-mode, scenario after scenario flashing through my head in an instant…
I lunge. Duck under a flying grenade, punch through the chest of the clone before me, and before he's even ash, strike backward—BOOM.
When Butcher teleports, unlike Oni Lee, I do it with an explosion. Where I appear—detonation. Three down. Oni Lee can only jump once per second, only ever two at once, which means… I grab two throwing knives from a falling clone, spread my arms like a bird about to take flight. Stand up, exhale hot air from my chest. No need to look around. I know by instinct—there they are, either side of me, clutching their throats. Both wear cracked oni masks, both have throwing knives in their throats. One falls to ash, the other collapses, bleeding.
Blood hammers inside me, wild, pulsing. I feel the urge to dash over and smash that thick-skulled moron into the pavement. Rip off his head, yank out his guts and twine them around my fist. He thinks he can challenge me?!
I lunge forward. Instantly, I'm beside the Oni Lee groaning on the asphalt, clutching the knife in his throat, gasping in agony.
"Vae victis," I say, curling my upper lip in a sneer. "Woe to the vanquished."
My foot comes down on his head, crushing the demon-oni mask and skull to pulp in one move.
I stand there, the corpse at my feet, breathing hard, fists clenched. Who else? Who else in this city wants to challenge me?! Empire?! Merchants?! PRT?! I'll kill them all. Everyone.
"See?" comes the calm voice in my mind. "Now you're starting to understand."
"Understand what, Fifth?" I snarl, still high from the rush. "WHAT?!"
"You just like killing."