Ninjago Oneshots

the spirit who yearns to speak

a famed critic met his unfortunate and untimely demise after eating a plate of potstickers that had been laced with cyanide. as a result, this became his reason for vengeance. it was unfair that he died doing his job, but with the abilities given to him by the queen of the cursed, he would make sure nothing like that happened again.

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The bitter taste of cyanide remained on his tongue as he dropped his chopsticks and fell from his chair. He couldn't see much, or feel much, really, but he got the sense that he was being carried. Or maybe it was his head spinning and his body reacting to the poison that coursed through his veins.

Then he was flooded by a searing pain and he screamed, only for something to be poured into his mouth. The pain grew, but he couldn't scream. Something was blocking his throat and he could only manage a muffled groan of agony.

"Why'd you do that?" he could hear somebody ask, though their voice was faint and muffled. He could tell the voice sounded accusatory. "He did nothing wrong."

"You know he did," someone else snapped in a high pitched voice, though this was hard to hear now. His ears must've been affected by whatever torture he was just subjected to, but he thought that this person sounded like a child. "I don't like it when he embarrasses us like that. How dare he embarrass the Chen family—"

"He's a food critic, son."

"He's what?"

"A food critic," the first person said. "Here to see if our restaurant has quality food."

"Our homemade puffy potstickers aRE QUALITY FOOD!" the second person shrieked, the sound loud enough for his already weakened eardrums to shatter.

He floated around in darkness, surrounded by silence. It was strangely peaceful, and he thought that he could remain in this state forever. But suddenly, he thought of the food, the puffy potstickers that he'd eaten and how he'd been unfairly killed.

Sure, he might've written some harsher reviews for the town's newspapers, but he was only stating the truth. His reputation of being one of the country's most well known food critics had preceded him, though along with this reputation was that of being one of the strictest critics in the country. He knew that people both dreaded and looked forward to his criticism.

Some took it well, while others... not so much.

Him being dead and floating around in nothing should prove as much.

"Well, look what we have here," a smooth female voice suddenly said.

He was standing at the end of a bright green carpet, facing a tall backed chair and a figure shrouded in mist. The figure held a plate of puffy potstickers in their hands.

"You're a skeleton," the mystery woman said, the voice coming from the figure. "I thought skeletons belong in the Underworld, under the rule of General Samukai. Guess I was wrong."

"Skeleton?" he asked as he looked at his arms. "Arms are bones!" he exclaimed with shock. Then he froze at the broken speech that tumbled from his mouth. He knew he didn't talk like that in life.

The woman tutted before laughing softly. "You've been dealt quite the number of blows to your head," she said as calmly as if she was asking what time it was. "And the amount of poison you've ingested was enough to cause parts of your brain to not receive enough oxygen, as you mortals call it."

"What happened to brain?"

"Do I need to repeat myself?" the woman asked.

"No?"