Late in Dead Dead Demons’ first volume, its boisterous heroine Ontan stares out over the city of Tokyo, a vast alien mothership hanging silently above. In spite of the imminent threat, the city is quiet. After months of frantic news reports, the mothership has become just another feature of the skyline, an accepted feature of the modern age. Ontan has news for her complacent city. “Everyone seems to have forgotten what happened that day, and are living their peaceful lives as if it’s a given. But I have something I’d like to tell them: there’s no such thing as an endless summer break!”

Ontan’s bleak words embody the wisdom of Dead Dead Demons’ youth. Though she speaks in terms of childish experiences like “summer breaks,” her understanding of destruction’s inevitability seems far more acute than the adults of her world. She is a child of destruction, having grown up in a world on fire, a world where sense and reason have been discarded. News briefs will gaily shift from detailing the reveal of a potentially world-shaking weapon to the changing of the fall leaves, without any acknowledgment of the ludicrous bipolarity of this contrast. Adults chastise the children for “not taking things seriously,” but in what way are the adults taking things seriously? They make theater of confronting the apocalyptic challenges of the era, but then move on to other things without a second thought. Given such cavalier behavior from the alleged stewards and guardians of their world, how can our heroines do anything but embrace the madness, and accept that the apocalypse is now mundane?

In response to Ontan’s declaration, and to the general lunacy she is describing, her best friend Kadode offers perhaps the only sane answer: “if it’s all bound to go to ruin, I’d rather it go nice and easy.” The idea of actually saving this world, of addressing its challenges and realizing a brighter future, is no longer entertained even as a fantasy. And why would you invest in something so unlikely, anyway? It’s clear to see that the adults cannot be trusted to fix this world, either on an individual or societal level. Every news report reflects the same message Kadode’s dad once offered: an announcement of surrender, and then a retreat from their responsibilities. There are no adults and no leaders anymore, just contrasting narratives of momentary diversion and inevitable destruction.

This seeming contradiction, this attitude of “the apocalypse is here, but let’s not make such a fuss about it,” runs deeply through Dead Dead Demons. Even the base contrast of its genre components embodies this disconnect. Pages pair Ontan’s goofy design and carefree adventures with stern radio announcements, as reporters speak of military tests, immigration, and efforts to stem Japan’s depopulation. The near-reality of these concerns reminds us that this world doesn’t need aliens to be devouring itself; they’re just a useful visual signifier of impending disaster, hanging over our world whether we acknowledge it or not. Meanwhile, Ontan seems happily oblivious to destruction, having been raised on memes and geopolitical fatalism since she knew how to read.

There is no mystery left in the world for these children. Both the wonder and the terror of the adult world have already been stripped for parts, laid bare on the altar of the internet. Having already learned the emperor has no clothes, their journey from the starry-eyed wonder of childhood to the dull-eyed acceptance of nihilism is a slide without friction. It’s not hard to transition from “I live in the bubble of childhood, where my actions lack consequences” to “I live in a bubble world, where my actions can’t possibly make a difference.”

And it’s not like the children are doing anything unusually wrong or short-sighted here, either. How can they hope to save the world, when the adults are acting like it doesn’t even need saving? At the end of every sober news broadcast, the announcer shifts gears, brightly discussing some inane activity like a record-breaking okonomiyaki being cooked in a stadium. When even the alleged stewards of the modern world aren’t taking the apocalypse seriously, and are reporting news of depopulation and destruction with the same bright, entertainment-minded tone as they report a puppy parade, how are kids supposed to believe any of this is serious? How are people supposed to get outraged, and take to the streets to demand better from their political representatives? The children might live in a bubble world, but at least they recognize what they’re doing. The adults have turned indifference towards seriousness into a science, with the internet and 24 hour news cycle utterly dismantling any impression of maturity or responsibility from our elders.

Asano doesn’t blame people for tuning out. If anything, he sympathizes with the impossibility of “getting informed,” as well as the futility of addressing society-scale apocalypse as a powerless individual. Even if you actually attempt to “tune in, get informed, and get involved,” what awaits you? A vast sea of raging, anxious, contrasting information, all of which is designed to incense and terrify you, none of which actually provides a clear plan of action. As our modern political movements prove, getting “more involved” in the age of the internet frequently doesn’t make you more informed – it can actually sink you down rabbit holes of misinformation, or just burn you out with the sprawling reality of all the terrible things you have no capacity to change. “Getting informed about our future” by plugging into the news and the internet is a bit like “getting informed about fire safety” by sticking your face in a furnace. You won’t emerge any wiser, but you’re unlikely to repeat the experience.

If anything, Demons’ “most informed” characters are also its most hopelessly misguided, caught in the grip of the internet’s infinite fury and credulity. Miho’s boyfriend is swept up by the internet’s current of mis- and quasi-information, and ends up destroying his personal relations through his desire to contribute to the alien-fighting cause. As he haughtily snorts at his “normie” girlfriend’s obliviousness, we see how information becomes its own tool of separation, a cudgel with which to prove your mastery of this scattered online reality. But that information is not useful for anything beyond its own self-valorization; it’s essentially a costume to demonstrate your tribal loyalty and rank, not a method for actually divining new truths, connecting people, or achieving a positive goal.

Attempting to “get informed and involved” is ultimately its own trap, because we now live in the post-truth age. Any potential conspiracy theory will find purchase with a credulous online audience, so desperate for either certainty or superiority over their fellow seekers. Even those who attempt to seriously engage with the problems of the era are confronted by the reality of our fundamentally unserious truth-divining metrics, where official sources of news are driven by the need for commercial ratings and audience entertainment, while unofficial sources comprise shit like Qanon, designed to flatter the biases of those with great anxiety and little sense. When this boy scolds his girlfriend over her lack of engagement, we see the fullness of what his “education” has bought him – not genuine understanding, but simply enough confident misunderstanding to lord over someone who’s chosen to disengage.

It’s a false sort of confidence, but what else can we hope for? When your life offers no opportunity to materially engage with encroaching destruction, you must either become ruled by fear, make a fetish of “staying informed” in some vaguely actionable way, or simply hope to secure some personal happiness in the shadow of oblivion. The contrast of Kadode and her mother illustrates this clearly: Kadode’s mother “takes the aliens seriously,” but it’s the seriousness of a conspiracy theorist, defined by an all-consuming panic that essentially overwhelms her personality. While Kadode is still able to enjoy the fresh air in spite of these apocalyptic times, her mother huddles inside, terrified of alien spores. Their distance illustrates an impassable generational divide: those who have grown up through perpetual apocalypse, and those who remember a time before, when hope for the future was more than a foolish dream.

Asano has sympathy for both sides of this conflict. He can remember a world before perpetual apocalypse, a world where small human stories could exist and resolve themselves without some necessary acknowledgment of the hopelessness of everything. He longs for the simplicity and optimism of such a life, but at the same time, he also covets the freedom of the youth, their ability to carry on happily in spite of the times. And so he buries himself in these moments, reveling in the purity of youth and friendship, and thereby unavoidably coloring it with his own anxious adult perspective. His children possess wisdom beyond their years, and an understanding of mortality that likely wouldn’t be so acute in reality – but then again, these are smart children of the internet. With all the tools of modernity available to us, we can travel from ignorant to informed to hopelessly jaded in record time.

Demons’ second volume doesn’t propose any real solution to this crisis of agency. Even as winter approaches in its final chapters, the adults still aren’t taking things seriously, or at least not in a way that promises any sort of meaningful change. When a heavy snowfall besieges the aliens, they immediately assume victory is near; when victory fails to be near, they content themselves working at food drives and shelters, eagerly awaiting the day their responsible personal actions somehow save the world. They are living in a dream, but it’s a pleasant one; the world might be ending, but at least they’re keeping their hands busy.

Meanwhile, the kids are taking it in stride. Kadode says it best: “when disaster happens so often, it kind of loses its sense of danger.” While Ontan’s mom can throw herself into Righteous Labor in support of the cause, the kids are so saturated with apocalyptic imagery and language that it’s just become the background radiation of their life. Activities like waiting in bread lines and hoping you won’t die overnight aren’t icons of heroic struggle to them – they’re simply the life they’ve been accustomed to, something that it would be strange to take pride in. With no conception of the world before, they see the fallen world as mundane, and cannot relate to the feelings of their parents.

Ultimately, that obliviousness might serve as their salvation. Dead Dead Demons’ moments of glory and catharsis are never associated with its alien threat; that’s all confusing adult stuff, and Demons’ heroines have too much sense to believe the world isn’t ending. Demons’ hopes rest in its small moments; tiny acts of kindness between Ontan and Kadode, or Miho’s hard-earned journey towards genuine self-confidence. There might be no halting this world’s oblivion, but that doesn’t lessen the importance of Kadode sharing Christmas dinner with her mother and stepfather. Ultimately, whether you choose to tune out or tune in to the apocalypse seems irrelevant; it will happen regardless, so you better embrace the time you have, and cherish the people you share it with. After all, the world might be ending, but there’s no indication it’s ending today.

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