Obligatory Disclaimer : I do not own anything (except maybe OC characters) all characters, places, worlds, universes…etc mentioned here belong to their respective owners and/or companies.

This is purely a work of fiction. Not meant to offend or incite, but to entertain and (maybe) inspire.

YEAR OF THE ONI INTERLUDE

"Whatever you do, don't blink"—The Doctor

Michael was in bed with his wife, his kids—two teenage daughters in high school and a son that would soon be graduating—slept soundly in their rooms, unawares of the figure that crept into their home, quietly navigating through its furnished interior and into the master bedroom wherein lay Michael and Monica—his wife.

Michael snapped his eyes open wide, his nose itched, his heart was drumming in terror, cold sweat soaked his back and forehead. He stared up at the figure staring down at him, looking at terrifying eyes that glowed a touch of red peer past the red, half face Oni mask. A terrifying chill enveloped his body, making his sweat a touch colder and almost enough to constrict his windpipes, making it hard to breath while it paralyzed him fear.

That mask! Michael knew what that mask meant, he knew that it represented death to whoever it overlooked. He’d heard of it, stories, words on the muted lips of his colleagues of a dreaded killer who was unstoppable, a killer who never failed to find and end his targets.

He’d heard of John, a man who claimed to be unkillable, strangled by his own guts and hung from the lamppost in front of his high rise apartment building, the reports said that a devil face was seen in the vicinity before he died, it also didn’t help that a red fang was spray painted on his chest.

He’d heard of Stalinayta, a powerful Hightown politician who offended someone she’d have done well not to, a red fang was etched on the sidewalk under her skyscraper and she was found with her face torn off and shoved down her throat, a message that many took to mean that she would eat the face she tried to save.

Michael had also heard of Maleek Sain, a businessman with the ability to create steam from his hands, boiled by his own powers in a large plexiglass box in what was termed a freak accident, one with a red fang drawn on it.

He’d heard of swift killings, of freak accidents, of brutal murders and disastrous deaths committed by the hand of nonother.

The Oni of Madripoor had earned his title as demon lord and king of killers over these months of high activity. There was always a death in the news these days, one suspicious one after the other, and if someone looked close enough, it was obvious he had a hand in it.

Michael’s nose itched, and despite all his attempts at moving he couldn’t lift a single finger, he suspected it to be a paralyzing agent of some kind in the air. He tried with all his might to move to even twitch a finger, so he could activate his own ability—Iron skin. A super power that turned his skin into an organic metal capable of withstanding powerful attacks.

He saw the masked figure draw a chrome gun with a similar colored silencer barrel and aimed at the body next to him.

Bzip! Bzip!

The sound was crisp and sudden. The bullets tore through her head and into the bedding, dying her hair and the pillow beneath it an angry, coppery red. That was how his wife, Monica the dread queen died. One of the most feared women in Madripoor, died without a struggle or complaint so unbefitting of her title.

Those damn eyes never left his all the while. Even as the barrel was now pointed at his head.

The fact that he was staring death in the face gave him that extra push needed to activate his ability. The feel of his skin embraced by the familiar touch of steel filled him with security and confidence—confidence to soon get up from the bed and give the stone-cold killer the most painful death possible. It was only a matter of time before he broke whatever it was that kept him paralyzed judging from the fact that he could also move his fingers.

He would’ve grinned even had he been able to since he was self-assured in his ability to withstand whatever attack the masked assassin threw at him.

Yet even with his confidence he harbored an unsettling hunch seeing just how calm those red eyes that stared at him remained. The gun’s silver barrel was lowered from his forehead and pointed at his open eye; he could even see the spiral within the suppressor.

NO! He tried to shout, but the bullets came faster than the thought to try shutting his eyes.

Bzip! Bzip! Bzip!

Three hot bullets tore through his eye, ravaging past his orbital socket and eating into his brain matter. The spent slugs bounced around his skull, unable to break past the metal skin that still held. It was an instantaneous and silent death. The killer carved a red fang on the man’s arm and left as he had appeared.

….

Nyugan wiped at his burning eyes, sweat beaded over his forehead and trickled down his face, making his eyes water even more. His throat was dry and parched and he felt his heart burning. He swore that another step would cause his ribs to collapse but the man could not stop running.

He’d told himself that he wouldn’t do it. That he wouldn’t steal from his employers anymore after the third time he went uncaught. But bills needed to be paid, debts needed to be settled, he already sold one kidney and that was barely enough to cover half his debt.

He had sworn that the third would be the last, but then a fourth happened. And the fourth was the biggest one yet. He was going to clear out all his debts and bills and forever leave Madripoor. He swore, like he had three times prior, that he would never gamble again, that he would never even see the insides of a bloody casino ever again in his life.

But his luck, as bad as it was, had finally run worse. He saw the price on his head and he knew he’d been made. They wanted him dead and unless he escaped Lowtown, he would be. So he hired mercs that would extract him out of Madripoor in one piece. They’d cost a fortune, but he had enough to spend.

Their trek through the forest had been going well, exactly as planned, until he showed up. Like a ghost out of the works, he appeared on their path. Materializing from the dark, arrayed in a tactical armored vest, placed over a black long-sleeve, and gray camo jeans. What Nyugan found most familiar was the half-face oni mask.

He’d heard word on the street of a new killer, one whose name was spoken with hushed breaths, whose title was whispered in fear that calling it out loud would invoke his demonic presence.

“They want you back, more alive than dead. I suggest you come with me if you want to keep it that way.” He spoke to Nyugan, stepping through the foliage with combat boots that had no right being that silent.

“You’re that Oni guy huh?” The mercenary captain said. “Heard a lot about you. Haven’t we boys?”

“Yeah boss, I heard most of it is bs tho.” His colleague laughed. Nyugan found himself feeling braver, perhaps the man wasn’t as pumped up as the rumors made him out to be, yet he just couldn’t keep a gaze on those sharp eyes.

“Looking at him now, I guess it is.” Another whistled, causing laughter to spread amongst the men.

They had their guns trailed on the masked man, any sudden moves on his part would result in a barrage of bullets that would tear him apart.

“I’ll leave one of you alive enough to tell the rest of me when they find you.” He stated as fact.

Nyugan watched, bearing witness to something he swore had been ripped straight out of a movie scene. The killer blurred forward, faster even than the mercs could pull on their triggers, a now rumbling chainsaw in his hands.

—vrrrmmm!

Nyugan saw the spinning teeth grind through flesh in astounding gory detail, rending heads from necks, tearing into rib cages and spines with wet resounding crunches, ripping into organ and flesh and bone with ravenous drive.

Bullets were fired, the mercs fought back valiantly against the killer who used the bodies of their own dead as shields, yet it amounted to nothing. The chaotic destruction continued. The tear of flesh and bone resumed. The killer was unstoppable. “Hahaha!” The killer laughed, fully immersed in the slaughter and thoroughly enjoying it.

—vrrrmmm! “AHH--!!”

—vrrrmmm! “No! No! Pleas—Uhk!!”

—vrrrmmm! “ARGH--!!”

—vrrrmmm! “Help--!!”

—vrrrmmm! Went his chainsaw, echoing all through the jungle like the continuous cough of a hoarse throated demon.

Nyugan remained on the ground, shivering in prayer as the ear piercing screams and heart wrenching wails sounded out accompanied by the grinding rev of a chainsaw eating through bodies and “Hahahaha!” the utterly terrifying cackle of the Oni.

In the soft silence Nyugan could still hear ghost whispers of howls and laughter and the buzzing chainsaw, he reopened his eyes, staring down at the viciously mutilated and gruesomely dismembered corpses of the men and women he had hired to protect him, pieces of them were spread all over the forest floor, the once green leaves of the trees were now dyed with splashes of red and threads of tissue and flesh.

The killer stood above the corpses—the brutalized remains of his hand work with a hungry glee. Warm blood stained his armor vest, generously dripping down his grinning oni mask and his chainsaw.

Step step step the sound of the killer’s foot on dead leaves and twigs made his heart nearly pound out his chest. “P-please, please I’ll do anything! I’ll pay it back! I’ll pay you double! I swear, I swear!!” He begged, banging his head against the ground in tune to the killer’s approaching steps.

He peeked through his fingers to see the killer holster the chainsaw onto his back, next to what was either a machete or a katana. Nyugan was beyond ecstatic, perhaps his luck hadn’t fully run out.

“They want your hands.”

“What--!” Nyugan asked, raising his head from the floor.

—Swish!

It was so swift, Nyugan didn’t register it. He simply observed his hands flop to the forest floor from the elbow down.

“Head too.”

—Slash!

“Huh--!” The sword flashed again, Nyugan watched the clouds replace the ground for a moment as the world flipped over. He landed with a thud, staring at his own body stumbling shakily without a head. The smiling demon face with its upturned fangs was burned into his sight, yet those eyes, those cold amused eyes were more demonic than the mask itself.

*.*.*.*