Black Fandom Girl

Imagine you're a little boy, you spent your whole life helping your mother farm fungus while your father worked in the mines. Life is hard in the desert. Travelers from far away call it "the wastes" but it's the only home you've ever known. You hear things, your parents sit up at night, talking about some big bad man and an army of monsters. Whatever it is, it's got your father ready to take up arms with some of the neighbors. He tells you that he'll do whatever it takes to protect you and your mother. That no matter what comes your way, he'll always keep you safe. You believe him, he's never lied before.

One night, your mother shakes you awake. You hear commotion outside. Adults yelling, the hiss of welding torches, the ground shaking stomp-stomp-stomp of exotractors. You hear your dad, hurriedly moving around the house. Your mother tells you to put on your shoes and takes you into the living room. Your father is loading a rifle while listening to a vox on the table. It wails with warnings and orders, you hear a loud static screech and the line goes dead. Your father hugs you, he's hugged you before but never this tight. He kisses your mother deep and places a pistol in her hand. There's tears in his eyes as he charges out the door, rifle in hand.

Your mother bolts and barricades the door behind him and places you in a hole in the wall. She tells you to stay put, no matter what you see, no matter what you hear and seals it in front of you. It'd be completely dark if not for the small hole at your eye level. You feel like you've been waiting forever when you hear it. The worst sound you've ever heard. Like a thousand hellbats, shrieking in unison. Just when you think it won't ever end, the shooting starts.

...

It's over in minutes. The report of autogun fire and the bone-shaking roar of mining charges leave your ears ringing. It's quiet. Then screaming, children screaming. Many children screaming. You hear one of your friends, a boy from the farms crying for his mother. Then there's a knock at the door. Knocking becomes banging. Banging becomes metal tearing and wood splintering. And where there once was a door, there's a Monster.

It's shaped like a man, but it's too big. It has to stoop down to enter the frame, its pale, bald head brushes against the ceiling. Clouds of pink foam drip from the corners of Its mouth. It's wrapped in a steel shell, caked with blood. Two furious red pinpricks burn where its eyes should be. The floorboards creak as it creeps forward. Leaving wet footprints on planks. It takes two steps before your mother fires her pistol, hitting it square in the forehead. Wisps of smoke rise from the wound, it didn't even flinch. In a heartbeat, it crosses the gap between them and bats the gun away with a wet snap, knocking her to the floor. Her arm hangs limply, bending the wrong way. It grabs her with a giant rusty fist. The air around it crackles and pops. It grips her whole torso and her clothes sizzle at its touch. It hoists her into the air and shakes her, violently. You almost cry out before she starts screaming

She screams and screams and screams. The smell is like burning meat and stripped wire. She...comes apart in its hands. Clumps of crimson, half-cooked flesh slough off onto the floor with wet slaps until it's gripping nothing but charred bone, stripped bare. Her body glides out of its hands onto the floor and it crouches down over. It cradles her body and shovels viscera into its fanged maw. You're frozen, you can't move, can't speak. Afraid to even breathe. You shift your weight and the wall creaks. The wet tearing and sloppy chewing ceases and the Monster snaps to attention. Fresh blood drips from its mouth and nose, it stands and begins to look around. It sniffs the air like a hound searching for rats and looks dead at you.

It reaches through the panel as if it weren't even there. Its other hand, smaller but still massive, grips your throat, your whole face really. You kicks and twist and fight to no avail. You can't breathe. You can't breathe. It squeezes the life out of you. You're going to die, you've never been more sure of anything in your entire life. The last thing you remember before blacking out was the nauseating, coppery scent of your mother on its breath and those hellish eyes cutting through you...

Goddamn i am so happy i quit Chainsaw man when they killed off nayuta it just started spiraling so bad. the literal only saving graces at that point were just denji and asa and in denjis case the dude was just getting abused with no care in the writing. no levity from the misery, no build up to any satisfying pay off, no following up set ups like power coming back, just constantly making the protags life worse to the point of mid season squidward torture in spongebob that stops feeling effective writing wise because again there's no levity or hope. it kinda gave the same vibes as the cynicism of neil druckman.