[The arrow passes through him like air. There's a hideous freedom to feeling nothing. He does not even want to reach out and wipe the tear stains from beneath Midoriya's moon eyes flooded with an echoing hollow of grief.
(His fingers keep twitching at his side. A tiny pulse, one-two-three-four. He matched those freckles to the stars.)
The manifestation of this freedom is that the idea that has taken shape in his mind doesn't concern him as it once would have, for the sake of not introducing an uncontrolled variable to an already volatile situation. For the sake of sense, of reason, of bald self-preservation.]
We're calling the Reckoning.
[He turns to continue down the stairs, no longer blocking Midoriya's way, adding his coda over his shoulder. He might be heard by other ears, far from this place. He hopes that he is.]
no subject
(His fingers keep twitching at his side. A tiny pulse, one-two-three-four. He matched those freckles to the stars.)
The manifestation of this freedom is that the idea that has taken shape in his mind doesn't concern him as it once would have, for the sake of not introducing an uncontrolled variable to an already volatile situation. For the sake of sense, of reason, of bald self-preservation.]
We're calling the Reckoning.
[He turns to continue down the stairs, no longer blocking Midoriya's way, adding his coda over his shoulder. He might be heard by other ears, far from this place. He hopes that he is.]
And we're putting a curse on this house.