Engendered scissors are tasked with weaving through the most plush and soft fabrics, intermittently snipping to an entirely different side of the cloth in a frenzy, a metronome sounding off tune in the background and its rhythm being distorted by the indicative cuckoo of a cuckoo clock, its artisanal engravings depicting an elder wielding a sickle.
The cogs of time whirr at unknown intervals, their ratios being unknown even to prominent deities. However magnificent time may seem, it can be clearly disputed by the roaring sizzles of flame condemning a burly man to his definite ending.
She's been thrust into another of those premonitions of hers, she has, barely being able to recognize the setting and situation of the dream: it's as if Cerberus had playfully stomped upon the mortal ground in search of a fallen hammer belonging to Daedalus, a hammer that had reduced a city to widespread rubble and craters playfully dancing into far-reaching cracks beyond even the most untouched surfaces, fallen men and women alike wearing ridiculously wacky clothing in the midst of an alabaster giant's arrival, various colorful figures hitching a ride on the ridged spikes on the brobdingnagian man.
Her nose recognizes the events before she can truly comprehend them, an acrid smell of burning flesh adopting itself into smog and gleefully travelling into her nostrils.
There's a dancing man, fully clothed in black and skin marred with violets, he slides down the man-like creature to greet ant-like figures.
"Come and dance with your son, here in hell!" he swivels his torso towards his presumed father, a stock still man wearing a suit dyed with cobalt blues and accents of silver, his bloody red hair a stark contrast to the other's.
In another universe, perhaps a man wearing nothing but jeans would have risen from the dead to swoop into action, coiling his strings around the perpetrator and successfully pacifying the threat momentarily. In this one, he does not. The son grins a smile with the edges of his teeth snarling with canines threatening his very life, and he proves his message to be true.
She blinks her eyes and smog perforates every each of the battleground, floating as she may be above the action, the characteristic smell of burning flesh arises from the screams of the damned two. A kamikaze attack, one the father would never expect from the young man who just revealed himself to be his estranged son.
Chronos does not interrupt the flow of time, no hesitation is mercilessly given to the pair and the bystanders watching, seemingly only young teenagers themselves.
He does not bring forth his index finger towards the flows of time, and as is such, the textured purple grooves on the white-haired man's skin extends beyond his steaming staples, they rub off on his own flesh and blood, who was supposed to be his sworn protector and love him until the end of time.
White-hot blue fire mesmerizingly blooms from every inch of the white-haired man's body, spreading all of his collected anguish and agony onto his father's back and soon enough, they are conjoined in eternal punishment burned from the promises of the blue flames. Screams are of course belted out into the open, most from the teenagers close by, but the loudest ring from the damned.
No, the one who is the loudest is not the surprised father, the one who can be accurately described as a father that sinned, who did not face the past and truly redeem himself: the vengeful son is a banshee, vengefully crying his vocal chord to utter demolition before the flames can even begin to break the strands one by one, screaming death and curses to them both, uncaring of his own fate and whether there is an afterlife to be spoken of, the white-haired man purifies them both to bone, until they are one pile of ashen soul on the blackened ground under their feet.
You suddenly jolt awake at their deaths, your breaths heavy and exhausting to your entire being, sweat beads beginning to form on your arms. The time has come. You cannot hold back anymore, you cannot ignore death by death in your dreams and the lapses of premonitions in your day-to-day life.
That death was the last straw and you begin to wonder whether it was the lack of context surrounding the incident that you were so bloodthirsty for the hunt, Hades being nothing of concern to you and your mortal ambitions; was it the matching blue eyes that glinted as white as the flash becoming of death? Was it the amount of passionate intensity in the white-haired man's face that convinced you otherwise?
Or was it perhaps the fact that his supposed birth father was revealed to be none other than Enji Todoroki, most commonly known as Endeavor, the number two hero?
It didn't matter to you anymore. All you felt was an untamed energy that threatened to rip your veins apart and the fabric of your very soul along with it. You turned your eyes to the picture frame besides your bed, a relic from your childhood. You were practically frothing at the mouth at the mention of gears, steampunk, and fabric when you were a tiny girl.
Not even knowing how to pronounce "steampunk," you had sought after the aesthetic anyways, your trusty tool being a special pair of shears that wove through paper as if it were tiny grains of sand. Postponing whatever your quirk had been drumming into your head for years was not an option, not anymore.
Your hands sought respite in the bronzing golden pendant hanging by a necklace's chain, in the shape of a pair of your childhood shears. A tiny topaz and garnet gem were on each side of the scissor's respective holes unfilled by your stubby little hands, bringing a nostalgic namesake to water your eyes the tiniest bit.
Even if your mother had thrown them away once you had made father disappear into the steady arms of the world, you still cherished whatever resembled it as much as you could. Reminders of past quirk specialists doting over your supposed foresight quirk sweetly repeating, "Oh, we have the next Sir Nighteye on our hands! Little Miss Nighteye, do you wanna be a hero too?"
Your eyes widened in inspiration, hands shooting up to crash into your cabinets and frantically on the move in order to keep up with the speed your thoughts were going. It was continually repeated over and over by every single specialist or teacher you had met, how could have you forgotten so easily? Oh yeah, because of how damn irritating it was.
As much as the world around you ceaselessly pampered heroes for picking up a piece of gum, you tended to be far more cynical of any system of justice that was effortlessly commercialized. How differently would people react if the policeforce was coveted above all, made into various movies and merchandise, and capitalized on the working class?
Exactly, the tendency for people's true motives lay beneath their public persona. That brought you to the topic of Sir Nighteye. You held exuberant amounts of endearment towards him when you were just a wee lass, owning every kind of pencil topper with him and All Might being the best of friends, screaming in excitement when anyone even mentioned his name.
Through the years, you held a bitter seed of dislike towards his persona. Sure, being calm, collected, and serious may allow middle-aged women and other girls to swoon, but the awful attitude!?
Simply put, you evolved from your previous views of seeing him as the next coming of Jesus H. Christ and the most wonderful man on earth, to a middle-aged heroin addict who had never been able to keep a single friend due to his high horse. That is why you hesitated on even inputting the directions to his hero agency in your GPS, looking back at his behavior, it made it hard to settle with just biting your tongue to impede the stewing barrage of words against him.
"Get over yourself, he's the guy who has the connections to actually prevent this from happening," is half-heartedly yelled at yourself in an attempt to self-motivate.
Tilting your head downwards and sighing, you turned your attention to your closet and readily picked the comfiest clothes you had that were appropriate for the serious matter. Elegant striped sweater to hide your pronounced hips, black dress pants to tone down the casualness, and your signature mini-shear necklace were gingerly placed on your body.
You slipped on some low-heeled oxford shoes that gleamed as if they were taken from an oil spill, your hair was brushed to the best of your ability, and you washed your somewhat ghostly looking face. It looked like your body hadn't recovered from the scare you had earlier. Shaking your head to brush the thought off of your mind, you slipped your old phone into your back pocket and left to plead the world's case in front of a man that could underestimate UA High's principal.
The trip to the Nighteye agency ended up being one of the most riveting journeys of your life, with a blonde pomeranian-like boy barking at his "hag" of a mother to quit her nagging and the train continued to roll on its tracks. Nothing usually happened on the train lines leading to such hoity toity locations, so the refreshing and entertaining yelling match between the mother and son duo was nice, to say the least.
It was a shame that they ended up walking towards the shopping district of Musutafu, although you did need to ready yourself to be intensely irritated by a man you barely respected. Hero or not, you believed that he was an easily dislikable person.