The Devil Is a Part-Timer!, Vol. 2 by Satoshi Wagahara Page A

Oh, but if you forget your morrrning dose, don’t try making up for it by drinking two in one go.”
    “…I wouldn’t mind asking a few questions about that, Emer, but anyway, I hear you.”
    “Wonderfulll! Always stick to the proper dosage, okaaay? Bye for nowww!”
    Emeralda ended the call. Emi placed the phone on her low
kotatsu
table, still confused.
    The packing slip, with Emeralda’s unsteady, childlike Japanese writing on it. The hefty boxes Sasuke Express just delivered to her. The weird way she seemed to soak up Japanese culture and customs, even though her stint in Japan lasted just a few hours.
    “Where…
is
she, anyway?”
    Still confused, her eyes scrutinized the bottle in her hand.
    “Guess I’ll give it a shot.”
    She twisted off the metal cap and was immediately greeted with the unnatural smell of syrupy cold medicine.
    Slowly, hesitantly, she tasted a few drops.
    “Huh. Yeah, it’s just an energy shot, all right. Does this really work?”
    It certainly tasted familiar enough—the heavy sweetness that seemed to linger on the tongue for far too long, almost past the cloying medicinal aftertaste.
    Emi didn’t distrust Emeralda, exactly, but between the packaging, the smell, and the taste, it was no different from the sort of off-brand energy drinks flogged in plastic racks next to the register at seedy twenty-four-hour convenience stores.
    It was as if those companies were trying to invent new laws of physics in order to cram just a few more milligrams of taurine into each bottle.
    Emi took her time emptying the bottle into her mouth. The liquid burned as it went down her throat, leaving a lingering, metallic, vitamin-y essence that made her twitch her nose. It energized her, yes, but regular usage couldn’t be good for her long-term health.
    Holy energy or not, it didn’t seem like the drink offered any immediate dramatic effects. She was about to toss the bottle into the kitchen trash when she noticed a disheveled mess at the edge of her vision.
    “Whoops…”
    The packing tape she had pried off the box and tossed haphazardly away was now stuck to the cover of the TV-listings magazine she kept next to her set.
    “Aahhhhhhh!”
    She squealed in dismay as she ran to the magazine.
    “They put
Vice-Shogun Mito
on the cover, too…”
    Carefully, she tried to peel the tape off of the photo of her favorite samurai-drama star. The adhesive mercilessly stuck to the cover, ripping the smiling face apart.
    Emil looked at the magazine in her right hand, then the ball oftape in her left hand, then sighed. The breath seemed to ferry all the emotion in her body out with it.
    “No, no, I can’t let this bring me down…!”
    She had just promised Emeralda that she’d go behind enemy lines and stake out Devil’s Castle. A soldier’s mental outlook always had a disproportionate effect on her performance. Venturing past no-man’s-land in her current state of gloom might cost her everything she held dear.
    Rallying her spirits, she tossed both tape wad and magazine into the trash.
    “…I don’t have any energy to cook. Curry works, I guess.”
    Despite her rebellious sneer of resolve as she rose, her steps were slow and clunky as she plodded toward the kitchen and took out her favorite New Hampshire curry mix and Auntie Nan’s instant rice packet.
    Tossing the curry block on a plate, Emi put it in her microwave and set it on high for two minutes.
    With a low, exhausted groan, she watched listlessly as the plate happily spun around, and around, and around inside.
    Something about the upcoming visit to the Devil King’s precariously flimsy apartment tomorrow made her feel inescapably despondent.
    “I…
am
the Hero, right? Zapping a plate of expired curry for dinner doesn’t
not
make me the Hero, does it?”
    Beep
, replied the microwave. She responded with a sharp glare.
    Next came the instant rice. Opening the packet just a bit, Emi shoved it back in and tapped out another two-minute