the-modern-typewriter Answer:
“Tch, look at you,” the antagonist said. “You’re so afraid of hurting the world that you hurt yourself instead.”
The protagonist whipped to face them, breathing hard.
The antagonist’s gaze raked over the protagonist’s body - the fractures, the hairline cracks, the scars as if they were literally coming apart at the seams of them. “Power, my dear, is a wild thing. It is not meant to be contained.”
Fear lashed through the protagonist’s blood. They curled their arms tighter around themselves as if that could slam the lid back on it. On all of it. They hadn’t wanted this. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, just stay away from me.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” The antagonist approached them, unafraid. “And it’s not going to go away, you know, just because you try to pretend that it’s not there. There’s too much of it.” The antagonist sounded like they were relishing that fact.
The protagonist stepped back again. “Who are you?”
“You can consider me a concerned party.”
“A concerned party. Well, thanks, but I’m fine.”
The antagonist reached out a hand, tracing a fingertip along a bloodied cut on the hero’s arm, giving them a ‘if you’re going to lie at least do so well’ look. “If you keep going the way that you’re going, it’s going to eat you up alive. Gnaw on your bones until there’s nothing left.”
The protagonist swallowed thickly. Their stomach squeezed. The fear jabbed at them again, and some of their facade crumpled. “How do I stop it?”
“You need to learn how to control your gift - I could help you there.”
“Why? Why would you?”
“Because if you die, all that power is going to die with you. I think that would be a shame,” the antagonist said softly. They were inches apart now, closer than the protagonist had been to anyone in days.“You don’t need to be frightened. Don’t you see? You’re a miracle. One of the few. You never need to be scared again.”
The protagonist’s brow furrowed, not sure what answer they would have expected instead. Something more compassionate. At the same time - they didn’t want to die. They didn’t want to hurt anyone, but they didn’t want to die. Exhaustion tugged at them, aching and relentless. The power whispered and begged to be set free, hungered for use, for more than the thin contains of human skin and ribs and lungs.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” they confessed. “Can you stop me? You said you could teach me to control it, but can you stop me? If you need to?”
The antagonist slammed out a hand.
The protagonist hit the wall with an invisible force, gasping, wide-eyed.
The antagonist offered them a small smile. “Oh, I promise.”
For the first time, the protagonist relaxed.
The force dropped from their aching body and they hit the ground, black spots dancing in their vision.
The antagonist held out a hand to help them up. The smile turned to a grin, sharp and exhilarating.
“Now fight me. Show me what you’ve got.”