Trigger Warning:

- blood

- gore

- slapping

- burning alive

- prejudicious persecution

- sexual propositions

- sexual assault

- migraines

- hallucinations

I'm still reeling in shock.

That combination of crimson and white short hair.

Those grey and turquoise eyes.

The red scar.

That blue hero costume.

I would recognize him anywhere. Shouto knows the truth. He is here to rightly punish me for my sins. No arrest, no court trial. Justice will be served here and now. And I am powerless to stop him. He won't give me the chance to explain, even when I know nothing will excuse the things I have done. Still. A tear slips down my cheek. "Please … Listen to what I have to say. Then do as you wish."

"Oh, I will do as I wish," he says.

My eyes widen in horror as Shouto bleeds from his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. His flesh peels off in strips, piling at his feet. The tendons rupture so the muscles curl back and tear away. All that is left is a skeleton. But even that is not spared. It begans to char and burn. The tang of blood and ash permeate my nostrils. I want to vomit, but I cannot. I want to scream, but I cannot. I want to look away, but I cannot. I want to help him, but I cannot. The sight is more gruesome than anything I have seen. This vision will haunt me for the rest of my life. So, I settle for crying. The headache makes it easier to do that.

"Oh, this is interesting and ironic. A prodigal hero is the one closest to your heart," a different voice speaks.

I open my eyes and look at the source of the voice. In the place where Shouto was standing is a woman. There is no pile of flesh or muscle. There is no blood or ash. It's as though the nightmare I saw never existed. Instead, there is a lovely woman radiates life and longevity in spite of her middle age. I do not know what color her hair is; it is covered with an elaborate headdress. I cannot discern the hue of her eyes; a veil covers her face. No scar is detectable, and no hints of blue are on her persona. She wears an extravagant gown of a priestess.

But everything starts to make sense. Earlier, I was in agreement that the Liberation Army had devotees instead of soldiers. Herein lies the proof. I will be made an example of via mimicry of religious persecution. So the Army finally found out who I was … They likely know of my elemental abilities. Hence, the physical restraints. Little do they know I have measures in place for this.

I glower at the false priestess. How dare she torment me like that? And is that my cane she is holding? It is. Silver I have seen, touched, and cherished for years is in her grasp. My pride is in her hands. The headache aches so much now. Sheer rage is the only thing keeping me conscious.

The crowd grows more frantic.

She opens her mouth once more, addressing me. "Lucifer Morningstar is your villainous name, is it not? What are you doing on earth? You should be back in hell where you belong."

I reply, "Hell is empty and all the devils are here. Come with me to hell, so we can repopulate it again."

The stinging from the slap resounds in my ears. I can taste blood on my tongue and feel swelling in my cheek. But it is nothing in comparison to my growing migraine. My mask comes flying off. It lands in the hands of one of the spectators, who snaps it in half and tramples it under their feet. His friends join in the act. "Insolent devil! This is why you were banished!" she shrieks.

Forget negotiation. I need to eliminate her and her followers as quickly as possible.

"And am I to assume that is why you're a priestess? I heard worshippers of heavenly beings guided people toward the right path. Manipulating the emotions of others … that is a new one." Another powerful slap. This time on the other cheek. The people cheer loudly at my state. I spit out the blood. I glance at the hand that hit me. Rings on every finger. No wonder, the impact is multiplied threefold. "I thought it was the Devil's duty to misguide and manipulate mortals into straying from righteousness. So what pushed someone like you to copy the Devil? Atheists, agnostics, and believers of other faiths must be causing loss of followership, no?"

I just have to keep prodding her. The angrier she gets, the more time I have to escape these shackles.

Since I cannot use my storage of quirks, I have three options. The first, I try to subtly pick the keyhole. The problem, I don't have any accessible lock picks on my persona. Second, I use my physical strength to break the manacles. Issue, I have a debilitating disease; my bodily strength is practically nonexistent. The last option, I goad the priestess into releasing me. Manipulate her to give me a punishment more severe than the burnt stake. I'll bet my damned soul that the key is hidden somewhere in her gown.

"Look at this girl before you! Not even eighteen years and so much blood on her hands. She has committed sin after sin with not the least bit of remorse. Who is she to condemn our beliefs? There is no salvation for her. Only justice!"

The roar of the people is deafening. It makes the blood rush to my brain.

However, the following sentences are alarmingly clear in my head.

"But if she gets down on her knees and begs for forgiveness, she can be made to repent. Justice will take a new course then. We can reform her, reteach her, convert her into one of us. Otherwise, it is the fire of judgment for her."

My vicious glare at the woman is returned with a satisfied shimmer in hers. Her fingers dig into my cheeks as she cups my chin. She hisses, "Attempt all you want, but you're not getting out. Not when the Liberation Army has planned this day for a long time." Then she strokes the bruised skin of her slaps. "Although, we can reach a compromise. You're a pretty girl. A rare beauty. Had I never removed that mask, then you would have been set alight right now …" I think I have an idea of what she is about to propose. I detest it, but for my own good, I'll have to play along. Maintaining my current expression so that she does not suspect a thing, patiently I wait for her to continue. She lets go of my face, only to stroke her fingers down my throat, my collar, my breasts, my stomach to the buttons keeping my trenchcoat shut. Tremors shiver down my spine. I want to spit in her eyes. Anything to get her off me. Blood spurts out of my tongue when I bite hard on it.

The mock priestess toys with the buttons.

They open.

Tears prick at the corner of my eyes.

Those with torches make a game of setting the bottom-most branches alight, only to step on them quickly. Smoke levels take no name of decreasing. Soon, even their features will become nothing more than silhouettes. It's an intimidation tactic. Ineffective, when a greater threat harasses me.

"I can change your life," the priestess whispers. She moves to my waistcoat. Its buttons loosen. Her hand slips further. "Join the rest of my girls. Learn to become one of us. I promise you: you will never have to spill any blood again." In other words, become the subject of your bedroom fantasies and live. Otherwise, become an example and burn to death. Not much different from my situation at the Hanada manor. At my silence, she touches the belt buckle and speaks again. "Here's a better incentive. If you become my keep, I will keep your love a secret. That boy will never learn the dark truths about you."

I detest that it is my body that is granting the opportunity for escape and not my wits. My plan to incite the priestess's ire to insurmountable levels has been reduced to this. I admit that I have sold myself on more than one occasion; it never meant that I enjoyed it. Still, I swallow the dredges of my pride and murmur, "I accept."

I wait for her to grin. To call off the execution. To remove my manacles, so I can finally decimate these imbeciles.

Only one of those things happens.

She smiles for a completely different reason.

"Did you really think I would set you free?" she scoffs. A swallow gets stuck in my throat. I feel the pain from the headache threatening to overtake me. I almost want it to. "I was not lying when I said that you piqued my curiosity. That you would have made wonderful bedroom company. But I like crushing the egos of my girls and turning them subservient. One look into your eyes, and I could see right through your deception. You were only going to pretend to be submissive. Then strike as soon as you got the chance. Just like the scorpion you are. Cannot risk that now, can I?" And she descends the very steps she arrived from.

Survival instinct jolts inside me. I thrash around in my shackles as the priestess orders the crowd to toss the flares onto the firewood. They need no further encouragement. A volley of orange lights comes soaring above me and land at the base of my feet. Orange turns to black and spots my vision. Smoke fills my lungs, giving me a coughing fit. The water leaves my body in streams of sweat. Dehydration takes effect.

Then a spark catches on the hem of my trenchcoat. I have no way of taking it off. Swishing side to side only spreads the flames further. They climb up and up, scorching the fabric, scalding my skin.

Chains that suppress quirk usage.

Is this how I die?

How fitting …

The fumes play with the already present pain in my head. I feel as though it will erupt. Maybe it would be for the best. An end to my life. An end to my suffering. Like the priestess said, hell is my home. All I will do is move from the hell on earth to the hell in the afterlife. Hazy images start to appear. Hallucinations … one of the symptoms of prolonged fire exposure and headaches. If I could laugh, I would.

However, one image appears vividly.

I see the night sky. The moon. The stars. The gazebo. The pier. The pond of night flowers. Amongst all of them stands a boy who is my haven. He stands with his back to me at the edge of the pier. I run toward him and hug him from behind. He turns around. He is the nightmare I saw. He smirks and falls into the dark water. I fall with him.

A primal urge surges inside me.

I cannot let him die.

"This is what you have done to me," the nightmare hisses.

Slimy, scaly, unseen hands scratch me and pull at him.

He does not resist.

But I won't let go.

Hate me with your heart and soul, but I will never stop loving you.

Live so you can hate me.

My grip on him tightens as I drag us to the surface.

Citation:

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here." - The Tempest by William Shakespeare