This was originally written in Kunzite's POV but I suppose any villain would do. This is placed some time between the end of Sailor V and Venus appearing as the princess, so she's still Sailor V.
In a dim alley painted in shades of the night sky above and the large bins and silver tins filled with humanity's waste, the beacon fought. A rich blonde colored her back from the top of her head to her buttocks. Tying it out of her face was the red of her ribbon in the center of her head and on the other side was a large mask of the same shade. In the alley's night, she was dawn, emitting rays of light from her fingertips. Her powers faded and the enemies were invisible once more. It seemed she had won but she did not move, she knew better than that. One by one they snapped back to their feet and renewed their pursuit. The growing pairs of blood-colored eyes were the mob's only feature that she could latch onto as she walked backwards. The cornflower blue of her own eyes searched for a way to stop the hoard of menaces. She was a veteran of this invisible war but still fairly new, it was easy to tell. Her gloved hands curled and uncurled into themselves. The way she tried to maintain her cocky composure but she bit the glossy pink of her lips. As if on cue, attacks of the opposing side lurched at her. She stumbled over debris and her own legs to avoid the attacks. Her movements were frantic, impulsive, and unpolished. She was uneasy by the group's sudden retaliation. These nerves were of the vessel and not the spirit. Despite her body's reaction, the mind of the soldier was hard at work.
Calculating, the girl was, an expert in battle and resourceful, too. However, she would never claim it as an attribute of hers. If she was anything like the past, she would simply smile her signature grin and insist that she thought of nothing more than the trivial. She'd further her argument by swearing she wasn't bright enough to have anything to do with calculus. As always, she would sell herself short both in conversation and in her own mind. Those who knew her would know the truth but few would try to debate on this topic.
In a matter of moments, her eyes narrowed in on her target, her nervous bit lips turned into a smirk, and she began to move forward. She pulled her leg back and released it to kick a trashcan. The trashcan launched into the group, the lid flying off mid-air, and littering the alley with crumbled paper and food scraps. When the attack landed, a set of red eyes disappeared when a wince was released. A shock to the group, so she could begin conjuring an assault of light, kisses, and hearts. All the pretty things she said she was made of. She holds onto these ideas that she should be some blithesome girl flicking through the pages of a magazine. She should know better. Those are simply a distraction from her true self. She is made of dedication and grief. She wields a sword better than she will ever hold that ridiculous moon compact.
But that is her fight, not mine.
We once agreed that there's a beauty in the anguish of war. Some day she will realize she is not admired and followed because of her beauty, but the churning lava of her planet inside her. She will insist, once upon a time, she did erupt but now she is dormant. There is beauty around her and she is that beauty. She'll say, time has changed and so has she. She may appear to be a mountain in spring but she is so much more. She is a volcano. Underneath her soft surface, the lava churns awaiting its release. Every remark made against her, every battle that didn't go her way, every person she didn't save, every demon she didn't slay, it pushes the magma up until she can no longer simply shrug or smile away the pain. She will destroy everything in her path if all the insecurities and loneliness get to her. She will wreck the presentation she spent years cultivating. The loveliness and the composure of the mountain destroyed by a moment of her boiling rage and pain. The tears and bloodshed of those she cared about, the loss of her normality; it will all be avenged in this moment. And when she is ravaged by these savage feelings, she will look at the destruction but she will not feel aggrieved. No, she will blame herself.
She is not Venus, the goddess of love.
She is Venus, the planet, a churning hell disguised in a cloud of beauty.
Venus finished the battle and my monsters were, once more, lifeless husks. She stood victoriously, her balled fists resting on her bare waist in a moment of pride. This lasts for a few seconds before her arms fell and she began to stare blankly at their bodies in the littered alley. She placed a hand on her forehead as she began to slump again. Her eyes did not twinkle as they did in the moments before she won. Instead, her eyelids were low and she was weary. She was already tired of her endless plight. While darkness surrounds the world and her soldiers sleep, she must be light. A voice called her by a new name, and she became alert once more. She turned around, duty set deep in the premature lines of her youthful face, and broke out into a run.