The monochrome figure sits and observes. He watches the people walk to their destination, going on with their daily routines, resembling ants from the height he is in. The world around him is still; there is no wind tonight, no animals such as birds out and about, not even an insect with their chirping and crawling. He has that effect on the creatures around him, casting fear upon those in the vicinity of twenty feet radius. It's because of his quirk. Everything he touches would be of black and white similar to sucking the life out of the world around him. The mere presence of him brings nothing but fear and tragedy. The moonlight shines down on the figure with shimmering silver acting as a beacon, a spotlight revealing a performer for a show that no one would ever wish to see. It is not of terrible acting; no, that is not the reason. Too gory, too scary. It is not for anyone with a sensitive stomach. His act is so horrible, full of torture and death. No, his performance had not been made for anyone with sensitive stomachs (it had not been made for anyone but one person). It's a drag to clean up expelled stomach contents, a drag to deal with horrified faces full of illness and repulsion. No, this performance had been made for one person in particular. The person which is in his story—a story of his own invention.

The monochrome figure just wants nothing but revenge. Revenge on one certain person. The person that is known as a hero to all. It sickens him. They have not a clue of what he had done! They have not a clue of what torture he had put the poor monochrome man through! The thirst to avenge himself, it is strong. Stronger than anything in the world. If it doesn't come down to it, well, he had died trying.

It is a slow rise. The words he spews, almost musically a-tuned, a low almost grumbling sound. The words that come are followed by the slow rise of his body to a standing position, eyes focused on the sky and the cityscape in front of him. "'Galavanting through the streets,' states the man. 'The clown—the fool—parades the roads and makes fun of every human. The fool who cares for not of those around but of selfish reasons. None of the townsfolk know of his sins!'" The monochrome figure speaks to himself in slight rhyme, a tight grip on the pole as he recites the lines from a story—a mere poem—he is working on.

"'And the fool had no foresight for the tragedies to come!' The man had been hurt by the fool and treated like scum! Hurt and thrown away, used like paper and crumpled to ash! Oh, how revenge was on the man's mind in a flash! 'Puzzles, here and there! They littered the streets, everywhere!' The man had no mercy." A cruel smile and a spin, the grip coming back to the pole. "O how he had no mercy! Not to women and children, not to the animals around! All and none went to the ground!"

The man smiles to the few stars that could be seen through the light pollution. With painted lips turned up into a cruel smile, he exclaims, "And with death at every window, the man sought for revenge! Overjoyed, he slaughtered and painted the streets and walls of blood to find the one who wronged him!" He turns to the direction of one particular hero's agency, pointing with his index finger almost accusingly, scornfully. "The one who ignored his warnings and was the sole source of the crimes in the city. O how the man had no mercy!"

The silent night is filled with his shouting and re-enactments. A dance of madness. That no one else sees. The pale figure screams his sorrows, he threatens and spats, curses tumbling past his lips. Oh, how he longs for that man to hurt. The puzzles pieces are piling. The man has help, help he does not deserve! He thinks of the boy—that naive and nosey boy. "Well," he hisses with pure bitterness tumbling off his lips as he comes to a stop and pants harshly, "the little boy wants to help then so be it. Best to give him something too. The Champion of Death will be quite helpful, don't you think?"

"Let me handle him."

The man whips around to the figure that materialized behind him. He had known there was at least one silent spectator for most of his show. He just hadn't been sure until they had spoken. The figure stands a few feet away with a suit made of mist that rolls off them like waves of fog. It consists of purple and green, orange and blue, light browns that seem to resemble copper and gray that is the same shade as dust and specks of silver all on a black background. To the monochrome man, it reminds him of staring into the cosmos—the colors of space that shifts and ripples. Their skin is black almost as if they poured black paint onto themselves without care. Heterochromic eyes that constantly change, a kaleidoscope if he may. They wear a mask of a fox, black with white paint dripping from the sockets almost as if crying white paint. The monochrome man hasn't a clue on their gender. The person shows no specifics, their voice sounds odd because of the mask, and they dodge the question on their name. They are known to the man as the Faceless. Never once shown him their face, barely speaks to him unless it has to pertain to them, and something about the way they act—well, he cannot read him well. Something about the being's aura is off.

The man sighs and nods, turning away as he says, "If that is what you wish, m'lord. Then you can have the child of Death."

Faceless steps closer, leaning against the railing and looks out to the city with a contemplative expression. A grin adorning their face despite the mask hiding it. They have a request that they know the man cannot deny. No, the man cannot deny any of their requests, after all. With each request, he gets closer to getting his goal of revenge. They will argue but will end up going along with whatever had been asked for them. The wind—a small breeze finally picks up, singing a ghastly tune. "I want not only the child of Death but the children of Sloth and Envy as well. They'll be great assets to the cause. After all, we'll be killing three birds with one stone."

The Monochrome Figure hasn't any idea of why Faceless wants that. He turns away from the skyline, staring to the ground. He takes steps away from the Faceless with a thought in his head. "If you are sure, then I will follow you."

"I will see you again soon. Do not fail me, or else."

With that, they're gone.

Yeee how was that? Who is the Faceless? What did Sir Nighteye do to the Monochrome Figure?

Questions?

Comments?