SOMETHING POOLS AT HER FEET, WARM AND TACKY AGAINST HER BARE SKIN. Cold air brushes against her shoulders. It tastes stale, carrying the heavy smell of metal. Copper. Concrete. Her face itches from her cheek to her jaw, down her neck. Something dried and congealed plasters her bangs over her right eye.
It's dark. Dark and cold and familiar.
She tries to turn her head, tries to see what she's standing in, tries to lift her arms and wipe away the unknown muck. Yet something stops her, makes everything inside of her freeze. There is a presence here. It spreads through the darkness to every crack and corner, stifling and heavy and hair-raising. She chokes on it. On the fear. On the pure, unadulterated evil.
"You've finally come home," comes a deep voice. A tall figure steps forward, swathed in shadows that don't quite hide the hard glint in His eyes. "Tomura was so sure you would return."
Her hands begin to shake.
(This is wrong, this is wrong, this is all so wrong-)
The man steps closer, hands folded behind the back of His neatly pressed suit. "Unfortunately, you were too late. Poor Tomura wanted to see you one last time ..." He stares at her, eyes narrowed as red energy crackles around Him.
(He shouldn't look like this. That face was destroyed years ago, even after all the agonizing hours where she was forced to try and put Him back together and it didn't work and this is wrong.)
The malevolent force makes it so hard to breathe, to blink. "Sensei," she wheezes, feeling it claw at her throat. "I didn't- I'm s- sorry- "
He smiles. A sharp, cruel smile. It looks like the bared fangs of a predator about to pounce.
"It's too late for apologies, little reaper. Look at what you've done."
She follows the direction of His gaze, turning slowly.
Her knees slide on the bloody concrete as she falls. Tomura's blank eyes stare over her shoulder, as if still looking to Him for guidance. Shaking, she reaches for his outstretched hand, limp against the ground. It's cold and tinged blue and sticky with blood. And for once, her skin doesn't crumble away as she clasps his stiff fingers in hers.
"You killed him," He says, voice even and matter-of-fact. A hand comes to rest on her shoulder. "This is the consequence of defying me. Do you understand?"
And she looks up at the man, trembling with restrained sobs as tears leave trails through the blood - Tomura's blood - on her cheek.
And He grins down at her, palm hovering just over her face. "Do you understand, little reaper?" Searing energy lights up the dark room with no windows-
For the first time in years, she wakes up screaming.
―――
The detective scratches a new frustration onto his notepad. There are bags under his eyes that weren't there before, a testament to long nights and insufficient caffeine. If not for her own exhaustion, she might have found it incredibly amusing. After all, she is the cause of his energy deprivation.
A week of questions and muffled static and burning white lights has yet to bear any evidence of her existence. She's done her best to uphold her end of the deal, picking apart her deteriorating memory for any detail about Tomura and his plan and operation. After three days of carting between her room in the facility - not quite a proper room, but it isn't the too-white cell and it doesn't have cameras and the tiny connected bathroom allows her finally wash her hair with hot water - and the interrogation room, they came to the conclusion that very little of Tomura's actual plans had been divulged to her.
She could have told them that. He never trusted her with such matters of importance, not for a second. She was-is-always will be merely a tool, a monster of flesh and bone and scars built to do his bidding quietly and without question. A precaution drilled into the both of them from the very beginning in the event of capture.
Maybe He always knew that she would end up at the mercy of the heroes.
(Detective Tsukauchi asked about Him in passing, once. He hasn't brought it up since.)
All she can give them is the names and aliases of those that pledged themselves to Tomura's cause, a description of the headquarters that's less than vague if Tsukauchi's frustrated sigh was anything to go by, and an overly detailed account of the Nomus' power and ability testing.
(She isn't like them. She is a tool, a monster, but she is still herself. Those creatures are nothing but defiled flesh and empty brains. She isn't like them. She's not, she never was, she isn't like them.)
The man in black - Eraserhead, she realizes faintly one night as she rinses the blood from under her nails after trying to scratch away the ghost of decay in her skin - appears when he wants to. He often makes it a point to display his freakish stealth, as if reminding her that he has the upper hand. Regardless of Quirk suppressors.
She's fairly certain Eraserhead is off teaching someone when he isn't here intimidating her. Whoever it is that keeps accompanying the man to the facility - sometimes two heartbeats, sometimes only one, always present behind the glass - talks too loud. She can hear snatches of conversation about homework and finals whenever the interrogation room door opens.
Perhaps they're studying her, just as Tsukauchi is. They've long since moved the topic of questioning to her, her past, her plights and sob-story. It makes her wish strongly for the static to come unchained, for the suppressors to melt away and give her the semblance of freedom she'd acquired before, if only to block out what he's asking for.
They sit at the table now, as has become the routine of her life. The detective puts down his pen and folds his hands. "Are you absolutely sure? Not even a sliver of a memory?" She can see how much this bothers him. It bothers him that she doesn't have the faintest idea what her name is. What her parents looked like. Where she came from. Ten years of her life are simply blank pages, jagged edges torn from the binding. "I know this is difficult, but we need you to try to recall ... well, anything."
She huffs, fingers digging into her arms as she tries not to explode. It's not as if she wants it to be this way. If anything, this is as infuriating for her as it is for the detective. She's not repressing anything, like he's silently suggesting. The mere idea of it makes her teeth clench and blood boil and the static grows louder.
Because she can't remember.
She can't remember anything before Him, before Tomura, before the water and the scars and how they broke her Quirk-
A hand comes to rest on her shoulder.
She jerks away, mouth clamped shut, hands thrown up before she remembers that she can't even use her power right now. Tsukauchi stares at her from the other side of the table, half risen from his chair with a sad look in his dark eyes. Eraserhead retracts his hand with a raised eyebrow. He points wordlessly to her arm.
I didn't even notice his approach, she thinks with gritted teeth, heart pounding wildly. Then she sees the blood smeared across her pale skin, coloring her nails a rusty red. It takes longer than she would like to drag her gaze away from the new scratches gouged in the long faded scars. When she does, she find Tsukauchi's expression mirrored on the underground hero's face.
No one has ever looked at her that way before. Maybe that's why it takes so long for her to realize that they're upset for her.
(They shouldn't. She doesn't want it, nor does she deserve it. Let their pity and sadness and anger go to those who aren't quite lost yet. She has survived on broken bones and spilled blood, and she will do it again when necessary.)
"I ..." Her voice comes out rough and thick, and no she will not cry she clears her throat. "I really can't remember. I- it's been like this for six years. I've tried everything, but- " She shakes her heard and lets out a bark of laughter. "You don't ask questions there." The force of their stares becomes too much and she looks to the ceiling lights, letting them wash away her discomfort with the brightness.
She doesn't look away until the adults leave, until the door clicks shut.
Until the door opens again and two new pairs of footsteps enter.
When the afterimages blink away and she doesn't see visions of glassy eyes and outstretched fingers, she swallows her vulnerabilities and meets the gazes of two boys who she's only met once each.
―――――
do you even know how long i've been wanting to write that nightmare scene ksksk
in the spirit of trying to be more positive and encouraging towards myself and my writing, i had a lot of fun writing this chapter because static is such an interesting character and I love her specific style bc it's full of hints without outright saying what it means
i find it very important that a writing style reflects the character, and i feel like i'm doing a pretty good job at it so far
n e ways chayse reached 2k so i want to give her this to look forward to <33 love you babes
also since i haven't described her physical appearance much in-text (in reflection of how she doesn't like to think about/acknowledge her appearance) i give you a drawing of her from back in quarantine:
so every time i write "something something bangs" THIS is what i mean^
ok bye, have a good night, get some sleep if you're tired <3