Limitless

A round, sturdy table with a deep red table cloth. Three glasses of his finest wine. Plates for three as well. He’s alone, but the smell of food cooking is unmistakably coming from his kitchen. Whether or not food will actually be served remains to be seen.

The excitement bubbling in his body can hardly be contained as he relaxes into his seat, crossing one leg over the other as he tucks a napkin into his shirt collar.

He’s not wearing his mask.

There’s no need.

He’ll be among friends shortly.

All of this, disgusting.

They arrive, slowly seething under the black that covers them. Unlike the other, their usual mask is in place. It’s hardly a comfort as it usually is.

In fact, it seems rather useless, at this point.

They know what’s coming.

They know how this always happens.

They approach the table slowly, an echo trailing behind each step, loud. 

When they stop, they eye the wine, the plates, the seats. Glaring at the third. Hating that third guest so much.

They clench their jaw, raising their eyes to the villain.

“Welcome, welcome,” he greets cheerfully, gesturing to the chair opposite him on the ornate table. Two long, black dinner candles abruptly light in the middle of the table, illuminating his scarred face. “Have a seat.”

His sightless gaze is trained through the mask and right into the other villain’s eyes, and perhaps through those as well.

The urge to jerk their head away, to turn it, to snap themselves right at the neck just to avoid such a direct gaze forever is far too strong to allow anything else. They writhe inside.

They don’t want to ask. They feel seconds from biting through their tongue, just to keep the words from blurting from their mouth.

What do you know?

They know. They know.

It’s always the same. it always starts and ends like this. It’s all for this one moment after moment after moment.

They’ve been waiting so long. 

And they’re so tired.

“You should have brought them from the start,” they snap, voice a low and hissing whisper. 

What do you know?

“Was there something you wanted to say to me? As we’re still alone?”

Do you know how this ends?

He clucks his tongue disapprovingly.

His smile shrinks. Just a little.

“You’ve always been so impatient.”

It’s been all but confirmed, now.

“Sit.”

There’s a force behind the word. A force beyond the other villain’s control. No matter what they do, they are irresistably compelled to sit down in the chair opposite him. Once satisfied, he continues immediately.

Their next breath is accompanied by a fiery agony. Their hands explode into a violent ache. Their skin begs to be flayed, to dissolve, to rip. Their head bursts. Bursts and bursts and bursts like a star expanding out, falling apart in a catastrophic boom.

They just barely keep themselves from trembling. 

They hold it all in.

And nod.

Flexing their fingers once, they exhale out the hurt and rage and glance away, staring at nothing.

He says it with cold certainty. Even as the other villain glances away, he continues to stare.

Stare.

Stare.

Stare.

“We’re the same,” he says, delight coloring his words. “Think of everything I could give you. What you could give me.”

He clears his throat, gathering himself.

Like they weren’t already trapped within the cessation of their fate. Like the abeyance of their condition wasn’t one of constant devouring, severing themselves through and growing anew, again and again, all at once. Like the  culmination of all their suffering hadn’t been completed ages ago!

They’re so tired. A god’s weight bears down on their body as they flex their fingers again. So much power inside them, all begging and begging to finally, finally be used in a way that’s true. That’s specifically them.

Destiny.

“Together, we could have so much.”

He sighs.

“Fine,” he says, sitting back. “But you know what’ll happen if you can’t play nice.”

He doesn’t move, but there’s a powerful shift in the air. Characteristic sludge starts forming a few feet away from the table, far enough away that it doesn’t ruin his delightful dinner arrangement, of course.

His throat constricts. Monoma lets a small choking sound leave him as an inky black forms in his lungs. It swirls around his heart, flooding through his guts, forcing its way from his mouth, blocking out... everything. The room disappears around him, its sturdy walls and guarded form absolutely useless in protecting him like the hero side had so hoped.

He knew it’d be this way.

So why is he so scared...?

He lands, immediately collapsing to his knees and coughing as the last of the sludge slips out of him, splattering on the otherwise immaculate floor around him. He doesn’t even have to look up, he knows where he is, every atom of the air around him so cloying and disgustingly familiar. He can smell him. He can practically taste him in the room, ash and sticky tar and the tang of old, old blood, the filth from such a revolting quirk still clinging to his tongue. 

Monoma doesn’t lift his eyes. He can’t. He’s not ready to face this again. He’d been so, so happy just a short while ago, it seems...

He fights the urge to sob, broken and close to begging already.

There it is again. There’s power behind his words, tugging Monoma’s face up, forcing him to look into Shigaraki’s sightless gaze. He smiles brightly.

“I’ve missed you,” he purrs, getting up to stand in front of him. He drags his rough hand through Monoma’s soft, silky hair, and cups his cheek. “We have a guest, Neito. Will you play nice?”

Under the guise of helping him up, the villain lifts Monoma up like a kitten and leads him to his chair, making him sit down with no effort at all.

“Okay, you two,” he says, turning and walking towards the entranceway. “Daddy’s going to finish supper. No killing, alright?”

And he’s gone, turning his threatening, warning gaze away from them as he goes to what is very unlikely to be a kitchen.

And he’s carried.

And he sits where he’s placed, limp and lifeless, skin burning from Shigaraki’s touch. When Monoma looks up at the abyss of a figure in front of him, he can’t... force a reaction out. It’s an old and primal terror that doesn’t even bother to freeze his blood or drain the color from his face, skipping straight to hollowing out every organ in his body and replacing its contents with pure dread. 

As Shigaraki walks away, he’s horrified to feel a plea for him to stay nearly leaving him.

But he holds it in. He keeps quiet. 

He stares at the nameless presence in front of him. 

They stand slowly.

“He touched you.”

What’s held inside them is indescribable in this moment.

“Did you take his quirk?”

They put their gloved hands up against the table.

“Do you have his power? Have you tried again and again and again to even come close? To even have a fraction of what he has...? Do you even understand yet...!?”

They’re losing control. It’s too easy to. They shake. Writhe. Explode. 

The table is clutched hard until its suddenly thrown. Wine douses the floor, candles clattering, fire sputtering out as glass breaks.

They surge forward, coming close in a second.

Monoma finds himself crashing to the floor in a fright, immediately scrambling back as the table breaks before him. As Mystery comes close, he skitters back, cowering and whimpering, utterly powerless. His thoughts are panicked staccatos of images, searching frantically, trying to understand.

None of it makes sense. He doesn’t know what the one in front of him seems to know. 

“P-please,” he whimpers out again, backing away another step. “I n-never... I never asked for this... I don’t know where it went wrong, I...!”

Tears start to skim down his cheeks. His head hurts, hurts, threatening to burst, cramming itself full with desperation.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry for whatever I did... t-to you, t-to make you... hate me... p-please don’t...”

Mystery laughs. It’s an insane sound, a milennia of agony stitched into one piece. 

“Killing you would be too easy.”

They grab him, hand grasping hard to the front of his face. And they squeeze, digging in and shaking with glee and malice and grief and and rapture and everything they’ve been holding inside since they landed in this godforsaken universe again.

“I’m going to make you cease to exist. You’ll be nothing, forever. You’ll beg for the simple pain of before. For the fucking pleasure of being treated just like this. And it will never end. It will never... end... Ha! HAHAHA...”

They grin under the mask, their smile curling their lips so violently they threaten to split as they start to summon what’s inside of them.

It already hurts. 

It’s far too familiar a grip. Monoma remembers, so suddenly it feels like a mauling shock of lightning, the feeling of his quirk being ripped out of his body. Worse, the feeling of his quirk being shoved back into place, deep and wrong. Out again. Back in. Torn and torn again, over and over, endlessly. The violation of it all makes him want to puke, he reels, dizzy, anguishing, desperate for it all to end.

His body goes weak, the fight suddenly draining from his limbs. He clutches to Mystery, quiet and shaking. 

“...”

Sobs wrack him as his nails dig in.

“S... Shigaraki--”

He wails out, voice muffled by Mystery’s grip.

“Shigaraki-san!! P-please help me- HELP ME--”

He claws with blunt nails, hopeless to do more than roughen the thick black Mystery covers themselves with, growing more frantic as he goes, scrabbling at their wrist, pulling at their arms, lashing out against that terrifying void of a mask, trying to free a single inch of skin so he could - something, anything, take some part of them and free himself. 

"I told you," he says softly. "No fighting."

With a smile, and steps on the corner of the table cloth, which was catching fire. It goes out with a cold hiss. He moves towards them, almost seeming to float. Despite his words and presence, he's not actually doing anything to stop them. He's interested.

What will happen?

He shudders.

A round, sturdy table with a deep red table cloth. Three glasses of his finest wine. Plates for three as well. He’s alone, but the smell of food cooking is unmistakably coming from his kitchen. Whether or not food will actually be served remains to be seen.

The excitement bubbling in his body can hardly be contained as he relaxes into his seat, crossing one leg over the other as he tucks a napkin into his shirt collar.

He’s not wearing his mask.

There’s no need.

He’ll be among friends shortly.

All of this, disgusting.

They arrive, slowly seething under the black that covers them. Unlike the other, their usual mask is in place. It’s hardly a comfort as it usually is.

In fact, it seems rather useless, at this point.

They know what’s coming.

They know how this always happens.

They approach the table slowly, an echo trailing behind each step, loud. 

When they stop, they eye the wine, the plates, the seats. Glaring at the third. Hating that third guest so much.

They clench their jaw, raising their eyes to the villain.

“Welcome, welcome,” he greets cheerfully, gesturing to the chair opposite him on the ornate table. Two long, black dinner candles abruptly light in the middle of the table, illuminating his scarred face. “Have a seat.”

His sightless gaze is trained through the mask and right into the other villain’s eyes, and perhaps through those as well.

The urge to jerk their head away, to turn it, to snap themselves right at the neck just to avoid such a direct gaze forever is far too strong to allow anything else. They writhe inside.

They don’t want to ask. They feel seconds from biting through their tongue, just to keep the words from blurting from their mouth.

What do you know?

They know. They know.

It’s always the same. it always starts and ends like this. It’s all for this one moment after moment after moment.

They’ve been waiting so long. 

And they’re so tired.

“You should have brought them from the start,” they snap, voice a low and hissing whisper. 

What do you know?

“Was there something you wanted to say to me? As we’re still alone?”

Do you know how this ends?

He clucks his tongue disapprovingly.

His smile shrinks. Just a little.

“You’ve always been so impatient.”

It’s been all but confirmed, now.

“Sit.”

There’s a force behind the word. A force beyond the other villain’s control. No matter what they do, they are irresistably compelled to sit down in the chair opposite him. Once satisfied, he continues immediately.

Their next breath is accompanied by a fiery agony. Their hands explode into a violent ache. Their skin begs to be flayed, to dissolve, to rip. Their head bursts. Bursts and bursts and bursts like a star expanding out, falling apart in a catastrophic boom.

They just barely keep themselves from trembling. 

They hold it all in.

And nod.

Flexing their fingers once, they exhale out the hurt and rage and glance away, staring at nothing.

He says it with cold certainty. Even as the other villain glances away, he continues to stare.

Stare.

Stare.

Stare.

“We’re the same,” he says, delight coloring his words. “Think of everything I could give you. What you could give me.”

He clears his throat, gathering himself.

Like they weren’t already trapped within the cessation of their fate. Like the abeyance of their condition wasn’t one of constant devouring, severing themselves through and growing anew, again and again, all at once. Like the  culmination of all their suffering hadn’t been completed ages ago!

They’re so tired. A god’s weight bears down on their body as they flex their fingers again. So much power inside them, all begging and begging to finally, finally be used in a way that’s true. That’s specifically them.

Destiny.

“Together, we could have so much.”

He sighs.

“Fine,” he says, sitting back. “But you know what’ll happen if you can’t play nice.”

He doesn’t move, but there’s a powerful shift in the air. Characteristic sludge starts forming a few feet away from the table, far enough away that it doesn’t ruin his delightful dinner arrangement, of course.

His throat constricts. Monoma lets a small choking sound leave him as an inky black forms in his lungs. It swirls around his heart, flooding through his guts, forcing its way from his mouth, blocking out... everything. The room disappears around him, its sturdy walls and guarded form absolutely useless in protecting him like the hero side had so hoped.

He knew it’d be this way.

So why is he so scared...?

He lands, immediately collapsing to his knees and coughing as the last of the sludge slips out of him, splattering on the otherwise immaculate floor around him. He doesn’t even have to look up, he knows where he is, every atom of the air around him so cloying and disgustingly familiar. He can smell him. He can practically taste him in the room, ash and sticky tar and the tang of old, old blood, the filth from such a revolting quirk still clinging to his tongue. 

Monoma doesn’t lift his eyes. He can’t. He’s not ready to face this again. He’d been so, so happy just a short while ago, it seems...

He fights the urge to sob, broken and close to begging already.

There it is again. There’s power behind his words, tugging Monoma’s face up, forcing him to look into Shigaraki’s sightless gaze. He smiles brightly.

“I’ve missed you,” he purrs, getting up to stand in front of him. He drags his rough hand through Monoma’s soft, silky hair, and cups his cheek. “We have a guest, Neito. Will you play nice?”

Under the guise of helping him up, the villain lifts Monoma up like a kitten and leads him to his chair, making him sit down with no effort at all.

“Okay, you two,” he says, turning and walking towards the entranceway. “Daddy’s going to finish supper. No killing, alright?”

And he’s gone, turning his threatening, warning gaze away from them as he goes to what is very unlikely to be a kitchen.

And he’s carried.

And he sits where he’s placed, limp and lifeless, skin burning from Shigaraki’s touch. When Monoma looks up at the abyss of a figure in front of him, he can’t... force a reaction out. It’s an old and primal terror that doesn’t even bother to freeze his blood or drain the color from his face, skipping straight to hollowing out every organ in his body and replacing its contents with pure dread. 

As Shigaraki walks away, he’s horrified to feel a plea for him to stay nearly leaving him.

But he holds it in. He keeps quiet. 

He stares at the nameless presence in front of him. 

They stand slowly.

“He touched you.”

What’s held inside them is indescribable in this moment.

“Did you take his quirk?”

They put their gloved hands up against the table.

“Do you have his power? Have you tried again and again and again to even come close? To even have a fraction of what he has...? Do you even understand yet...!?”

They’re losing control. It’s too easy to. They shake. Writhe. Explode. 

The table is clutched hard until its suddenly thrown. Wine douses the floor, candles clattering, fire sputtering out as glass breaks.

They surge forward, coming close in a second.

A round, sturdy table with a deep red table cloth. Three glasses of his finest wine. Plates for three as well. He’s alone, but the smell of food cooking is unmistakably coming from his kitchen. Whether or not food will actually be served remains to be seen.

The excitement bubbling in his body can hardly be contained as he relaxes into his seat, crossing one leg over the other as he tucks a napkin into his shirt collar.

He’s not wearing his mask.

There’s no need.

He’ll be among friends shortly.

All of this, disgusting.

They arrive, slowly seething under the black that covers them. Unlike the other, their usual mask is in place. It’s hardly a comfort as it usually is.

In fact, it seems rather useless, at this point.

They know what’s coming.

They know how this always happens.

They approach the table slowly, an echo trailing behind each step, loud. 

When they stop, they eye the wine, the plates, the seats. Glaring at the third. Hating that third guest so much.

They clench their jaw, raising their eyes to the villain.

“Welcome, welcome,” he greets cheerfully, gesturing to the chair opposite him on the ornate table. Two long, black dinner candles abruptly light in the middle of the table, illuminating his scarred face. “Have a seat.”

His sightless gaze is trained through the mask and right into the other villain’s eyes, and perhaps through those as well.

The urge to jerk their head away, to turn it, to snap themselves right at the neck just to avoid such a direct gaze forever is far too strong to allow anything else. They writhe inside.

They don’t want to ask. They feel seconds from biting through their tongue, just to keep the words from blurting from their mouth.

What do you know?

They know. They know.

It’s always the same. it always starts and ends like this. It’s all for this one moment after moment after moment.

They’ve been waiting so long. 

And they’re so tired.

“You should have brought them from the start,” they snap, voice a low and hissing whisper. 

What do you know?

“Was there something you wanted to say to me? As we’re still alone?”

Do you know how this ends?

He clucks his tongue disapprovingly.

His smile shrinks. Just a little.

“You’ve always been so impatient.”

It’s been all but confirmed, now.

“Sit.”

There’s a force behind the word. A force beyond the other villain’s control. No matter what they do, they are irresistably compelled to sit down in the chair opposite him. Once satisfied, he continues immediately.

Their next breath is accompanied by a fiery agony. Their hands explode into a violent ache. Their skin begs to be flayed, to dissolve, to rip. Their head bursts. Bursts and bursts and bursts like a star expanding out, falling apart in a catastrophic boom.

They just barely keep themselves from trembling. 

They hold it all in.

And nod.

Flexing their fingers once, they exhale out the hurt and rage and glance away, staring at nothing.

He says it with cold certainty. Even as the other villain glances away, he continues to stare.

Stare.

Stare.

Stare.

“We’re the same,” he says, delight coloring his words. “Think of everything I could give you. What you could give me.”

He clears his throat, gathering himself.

Like they weren’t already trapped within the cessation of their fate. Like the abeyance of their condition wasn’t one of constant devouring, severing themselves through and growing anew, again and again, all at once. Like the  culmination of all their suffering hadn’t been completed ages ago!

They’re so tired. A god’s weight bears down on their body as they flex their fingers again. So much power inside them, all begging and begging to finally, finally be used in a way that’s true. That’s specifically them.

Destiny.

“Together, we could have so much.”

He sighs.

“Fine,” he says, sitting back. “But you know what’ll happen if you can’t play nice.”

He doesn’t move, but there’s a powerful shift in the air. Characteristic sludge starts forming a few feet away from the table, far enough away that it doesn’t ruin his delightful dinner arrangement, of course.

His throat constricts. Monoma lets a small choking sound leave him as an inky black forms in his lungs. It swirls around his heart, flooding through his guts, forcing its way from his mouth, blocking out... everything. The room disappears around him, its sturdy walls and guarded form absolutely useless in protecting him like the hero side had so hoped.

He knew it’d be this way.

So why is he so scared...?

He lands, immediately collapsing to his knees and coughing as the last of the sludge slips out of him, splattering on the otherwise immaculate floor around him. He doesn’t even have to look up, he knows where he is, every atom of the air around him so cloying and disgustingly familiar. He can smell him. He can practically taste him in the room, ash and sticky tar and the tang of old, old blood, the filth from such a revolting quirk still clinging to his tongue. 

Monoma doesn’t lift his eyes. He can’t. He’s not ready to face this again. He’d been so, so happy just a short while ago, it seems...

He fights the urge to sob, broken and close to begging already.

There it is again. There’s power behind his words, tugging Monoma’s face up, forcing him to look into Shigaraki’s sightless gaze. He smiles brightly.

“I’ve missed you,” he purrs, getting up to stand in front of him. He drags his rough hand through Monoma’s soft, silky hair, and cups his cheek. “We have a guest, Neito. Will you play nice?”

Under the guise of helping him up, the villain lifts Monoma up like a kitten and leads him to his chair, making him sit down with no effort at all.

“Okay, you two,” he says, turning and walking towards the entranceway. “Daddy’s going to finish supper. No killing, alright?”

And he’s gone, turning his threatening, warning gaze away from them as he goes to what is very unlikely to be a kitchen.

A round, sturdy table with a deep red table cloth. Three glasses of his finest wine. Plates for three as well. He’s alone, but the smell of food cooking is unmistakably coming from his kitchen. Whether or not food will actually be served remains to be seen.

The excitement bubbling in his body can hardly be contained as he relaxes into his seat, crossing one leg over the other as he tucks a napkin into his shirt collar.

He’s not wearing his mask.

There’s no need.

He’ll be among friends shortly.

All of this, disgusting.

They arrive, slowly seething under the black that covers them. Unlike the other, their usual mask is in place. It’s hardly a comfort as it usually is.

In fact, it seems rather useless, at this point.

They know what’s coming.

They know how this always happens.

They approach the table slowly, an echo trailing behind each step, loud. 

When they stop, they eye the wine, the plates, the seats. Glaring at the third. Hating that third guest so much.

They clench their jaw, raising their eyes to the villain.

“Welcome, welcome,” he greets cheerfully, gesturing to the chair opposite him on the ornate table. Two long, black dinner candles abruptly light in the middle of the table, illuminating his scarred face. “Have a seat.”

His sightless gaze is trained through the mask and right into the other villain’s eyes, and perhaps through those as well.

The urge to jerk their head away, to turn it, to snap themselves right at the neck just to avoid such a direct gaze forever is far too strong to allow anything else. They writhe inside.

They don’t want to ask. They feel seconds from biting through their tongue, just to keep the words from blurting from their mouth.

What do you know?

They know. They know.

It’s always the same. it always starts and ends like this. It’s all for this one moment after moment after moment.

They’ve been waiting so long. 

And they’re so tired.

“You should have brought them from the start,” they snap, voice a low and hissing whisper. 

What do you know?

“Was there something you wanted to say to me? As we’re still alone?”

Do you know how this ends?

He clucks his tongue disapprovingly.

His smile shrinks. Just a little.

“You’ve always been so impatient.”

It’s been all but confirmed, now.

“Sit.”

There’s a force behind the word. A force beyond the other villain’s control. No matter what they do, they are irresistably compelled to sit down in the chair opposite him. Once satisfied, he continues immediately.

Their next breath is accompanied by a fiery agony. Their hands explode into a violent ache. Their skin begs to be flayed, to dissolve, to rip. Their head bursts. Bursts and bursts and bursts like a star expanding out, falling apart in a catastrophic boom.

They just barely keep themselves from trembling. 

They hold it all in.

And nod.

Flexing their fingers once, they exhale out the hurt and rage and glance away, staring at nothing.

He says it with cold certainty. Even as the other villain glances away, he continues to stare.

Stare.

Stare.

Stare.

“We’re the same,” he says, delight coloring his words. “Think of everything I could give you. What you could give me.”

He clears his throat, gathering himself.

Like they weren’t already trapped within the cessation of their fate. Like the abeyance of their condition wasn’t one of constant devouring, severing themselves through and growing anew, again and again, all at once. Like the  culmination of all their suffering hadn’t been completed ages ago!

They’re so tired. A god’s weight bears down on their body as they flex their fingers again. So much power inside them, all begging and begging to finally, finally be used in a way that’s true. That’s specifically them.

Destiny.

“Together, we could have so much.”

He sighs.

“Fine,” he says, sitting back. “But you know what’ll happen if you can’t play nice.”

He doesn’t move, but there’s a powerful shift in the air. Characteristic sludge starts forming a few feet away from the table, far enough away that it doesn’t ruin his delightful dinner arrangement, of course.

A round, sturdy table with a deep red table cloth. Three glasses of his finest wine. Plates for three as well. He’s alone, but the smell of food cooking is unmistakably coming from his kitchen. Whether or not food will actually be served remains to be seen.

The excitement bubbling in his body can hardly be contained as he relaxes into his seat, crossing one leg over the other as he tucks a napkin into his shirt collar.

He’s not wearing his mask.

There’s no need.

He’ll be among friends shortly.

All of this, disgusting.

They arrive, slowly seething under the black that covers them. Unlike the other, their usual mask is in place. It’s hardly a comfort as it usually is.

In fact, it seems rather useless, at this point.

They know what’s coming.

They know how this always happens.

They approach the table slowly, an echo trailing behind each step, loud. 

When they stop, they eye the wine, the plates, the seats. Glaring at the third. Hating that third guest so much.

They clench their jaw, raising their eyes to the villain.

“Welcome, welcome,” he greets cheerfully, gesturing to the chair opposite him on the ornate table. Two long, black dinner candles abruptly light in the middle of the table, illuminating his scarred face. “Have a seat.”

His sightless gaze is trained through the mask and right into the other villain’s eyes, and perhaps through those as well.

The urge to jerk their head away, to turn it, to snap themselves right at the neck just to avoid such a direct gaze forever is far too strong to allow anything else. They writhe inside.

They don’t want to ask. They feel seconds from biting through their tongue, just to keep the words from blurting from their mouth.

What do you know?

They know. They know.

It’s always the same. it always starts and ends like this. It’s all for this one moment after moment after moment.

They’ve been waiting so long. 

And they’re so tired.

“You should have brought them from the start,” they snap, voice a low and hissing whisper. 

What do you know?

“Was there something you wanted to say to me? As we’re still alone?”

Do you know how this ends?

He clucks his tongue disapprovingly.

His smile shrinks. Just a little.

“You’ve always been so impatient.”

It’s been all but confirmed, now.

“Sit.”

There’s a force behind the word. A force beyond the other villain’s control. No matter what they do, they are irresistably compelled to sit down in the chair opposite him. Once satisfied, he continues immediately.

Their next breath is accompanied by a fiery agony. Their hands explode into a violent ache. Their skin begs to be flayed, to dissolve, to rip. Their head bursts. Bursts and bursts and bursts like a star expanding out, falling apart in a catastrophic boom.

They just barely keep themselves from trembling. 

They hold it all in.

And nod.

Flexing their fingers once, they exhale out the hurt and rage and glance away, staring at nothing.

He says it with cold certainty. Even as the other villain glances away, he continues to stare.

Stare.

Stare.

Stare.

“We’re the same,” he says, delight coloring his words. “Think of everything I could give you. What you could give me.”

He clears his throat, gathering himself.

A round, sturdy table with a deep red table cloth. Three glasses of his finest wine. Plates for three as well. He’s alone, but the smell of food cooking is unmistakably coming from his kitchen. Whether or not food will actually be served remains to be seen.

The excitement bubbling in his body can hardly be contained as he relaxes into his seat, crossing one leg over the other as he tucks a napkin into his shirt collar.

He’s not wearing his mask.

There’s no need.

He’ll be among friends shortly.

All of this, disgusting.

They arrive, slowly seething under the black that covers them. Unlike the other, their usual mask is in place. It’s hardly a comfort as it usually is.

In fact, it seems rather useless, at this point.

They know what’s coming.

They know how this always happens.

They approach the table slowly, an echo trailing behind each step, loud. 

When they stop, they eye the wine, the plates, the seats. Glaring at the third. Hating that third guest so much.

They clench their jaw, raising their eyes to the villain.

“Welcome, welcome,” he greets cheerfully, gesturing to the chair opposite him on the ornate table. Two long, black dinner candles abruptly light in the middle of the table, illuminating his scarred face. “Have a seat.”

His sightless gaze is trained through the mask and right into the other villain’s eyes, and perhaps through those as well.

The urge to jerk their head away, to turn it, to snap themselves right at the neck just to avoid such a direct gaze forever is far too strong to allow anything else. They writhe inside.

They don’t want to ask. They feel seconds from biting through their tongue, just to keep the words from blurting from their mouth.

What do you know?

They know. They know.

It’s always the same. it always starts and ends like this. It’s all for this one moment after moment after moment.

They’ve been waiting so long. 

And they’re so tired.

“You should have brought them from the start,” they snap, voice a low and hissing whisper. 

What do you know?

“Was there something you wanted to say to me? As we’re still alone?”

Do you know how this ends?

He clucks his tongue disapprovingly.

His smile shrinks. Just a little.

“You’ve always been so impatient.”

It’s been all but confirmed, now.

“Sit.”

There’s a force behind the word. A force beyond the other villain’s control. No matter what they do, they are irresistably compelled to sit down in the chair opposite him. Once satisfied, he continues immediately.

A round, sturdy table with a deep red table cloth. Three glasses of his finest wine. Plates for three as well. He’s alone, but the smell of food cooking is unmistakably coming from his kitchen. Whether or not food will actually be served remains to be seen.

The excitement bubbling in his body can hardly be contained as he relaxes into his seat, crossing one leg over the other as he tucks a napkin into his shirt collar.

He’s not wearing his mask.

There’s no need.

He’ll be among friends shortly.

All of this, disgusting.

They arrive, slowly seething under the black that covers them. Unlike the other, their usual mask is in place. It’s hardly a comfort as it usually is.

In fact, it seems rather useless, at this point.

They know what’s coming.

They know how this always happens.

They approach the table slowly, an echo trailing behind each step, loud. 

When they stop, they eye the wine, the plates, the seats. Glaring at the third. Hating that third guest so much.

They clench their jaw, raising their eyes to the villain.

“Welcome, welcome,” he greets cheerfully, gesturing to the chair opposite him on the ornate table. Two long, black dinner candles abruptly light in the middle of the table, illuminating his scarred face. “Have a seat.”

His sightless gaze is trained through the mask and right into the other villain’s eyes, and perhaps through those as well.

I don’t believe we’ve formally met, which is rather rude of me. I’ve been watching you for quite some time.

I have a proposition for you.

I don’t believe we’ve formally met, which is rather rude of me. I’ve been watching you for quite some time.

I have a proposition for you.

I don’t believe we’ve formally met, which is rather rude of me. I’ve been watching you for quite some time.

I have a proposition for you.

…

Monoma is not a bad person.