<:-[Mukuro Potter]-:>
For my entire life, I’ve lacked purpose. Motivation. When I first sat down for class, at the young age of four, I barely noticed the teacher try to prompt us all to introduce ourselves.
“Tell us your name and your ‘dream for the future.’ She asked.
I mindlessly noted down each of the student’s goals one at a time. Each of them wanted to do something their parents did, barring a few who wanted to be superheroes or princesses and the like, even Dudley – my cousin who had been spoon-fed everything in a way even a toddler could understand was irresponsible – had a dream.
“I’m gonna be a footballer!” He declared as he mashed some more food into his chubby mouth. I’d seen footballers before, and Dudley’s looked more like a ball than one of the players even to this day that’s true. Or I think so, as I smoothly stroll down the streets of Little Whining after having not seen it for several years.
But then, I recall, she – after giving half-hearted reassurances to the baby whale’s hopeless dream – turned to me.
“Now dear, what’s your dream?” She asked after I monotonously repeated the name Petunia had hammered into my head that morning – the first time I’d ever heard it.
And you know what I did when I heard that question. I thought, something long dissuaded in the Dursley household, and considered the future. My future. After today what will I do, after this week what will I try to do, after this month what will I work towards? Frozen I found myself replying that: “I don’t, have a dream.”
No matter how much she prodded I just replied that I honestly lacked a dream. In those days I only considered getting through the day. Surviving that one moment in an endless sea of moments that was my life at the Dursleys. Little did I know at the time that surviving is a dream, a dream that I clung to for years after ‘that day’.
I remember it clearly. The sour smoke of a passing grenade, the screams of terror that barely registered in my numb shocked mind, the desperation I clung to the Dursleys with until they threw me out and into the chaos. Whyever, they thought Afghanistan was a good vacation spot was anyone’s guess. Oh well, it’s not like it’ll matter soon enough.
From there I found myself flung into a role I thought before a mere horror story. Me, a five-year-old child, a child-Soldier. Captured by some passing mercenaries I found myself flung into a year of training. And there I found something unbelievable, a talent I never knew I had and one I sometimes wish I never discovered.
I was talented at being a Soldier. A prodigy at that.
In a single year, I learnt hundreds of ways to kill, strategies that came as easy to me as breathing and a myriad of techniques that would wreak destruction across the entire country in the months following my ‘graduation’. Not that it was by choice, my ‘graduation’ was caused by two things. Fear and jealousy.
Quickly the mercenaries that took me in grew to fear me, jealous of how easily I could brush off months of life-threatening ‘training’ without a scratch on me. Honestly, it wasn’t too surprising they tried to kill me in my sleep, sadly for each technique they developed, I ended up inventing a counter. Nothing was left after that night, the vanished in the blink of an eye.
Regardless life went on.
Travelling the country, I found myself hopping over the next year from warzone to warzone, developing my abilities with each encounter. Still without even a mere scratch to show for it. Wandering without purpose until Fenrir showed up. One of their special agents was leading an assault on a town fortified by another mercenary group that held hostage, several important government officials.
Whatever they planned for that raid I would never know or bear witness to. As I dealt with them first. Later they arrived stunned at a seven-year-old standing on a mountain of corpses in a scene that made several of one of the most dangerous mercenary groups in the world’s members wet their pants.
One among them, a graduate from Hope’s Peak Academy regaled as the Ultimate Tactician calmly surveyed the scene and then asked. “You did this right?” Calmly, as if nothing in the world could ever bother him. When I nodded, he then sighed and radioed his commanders, with all the officials as witnesses he knew the best option in his situation, so the group didn’t lose reputation was one thing.
To recruit me.
Of course, I accepted their offer. To me, it was a freedom that would allow me to grow to greater heights to refine my talent further, as that had somehow become my dream in the dreary wastelands of the war-ridden nation.
Or at least until I learnt the truth about ‘them’.
But that story is something I choose to put aside for now as I glance in on the individuals whom I hold solely responsible for my sudden plunge into a loveless life of war. The Dursleys. Dudley, who’s grown even rounder over the years, along with Petunia and Vernon who are mostly the same barring some hair loss from the latter.
Clutching tightly one of the revolvers hidden within my slightly baggy shirt styled after some punk band and skimming my hand across a small, camouflaged pocket in my black leggings containing a thin knife I take a deep calming breath. Most of my kills are for a single reason, to survive, but these kills, these murders are for nothing more than revenge. Softly closing off all signs of emotions in my features I mechanically pull my hand up high and knock on the plain front door.
<:-[Vernon Dursley]-:>
It started as all days do. Perfectly ordinary with no signs of anything else, thank you very much. It was my boy’s birthday, after all, anything less would be an insult of the highest degree.
I woke up with my wife, we got to work and quickly set up all thirty-seven – a rather meagre amount all things considered – and then she got to work making up his perfect breakfast. Dudley came downstairs like a rocket and tore through his food vigorously, just like I raised him too, before digging into his present count and bringing it up to a remarkably impressive figure of thirty-nine in all. Something he himself counted to, that’s my boy!
And then, just as we were preparing to head out to the zoo for his even better party, the door knocked. It must be his friends, a tad early but perfectly pleasant as we were planning to head out momentarily too. Thus, after shushing down my dear wife as I felt the need to welcome our guests in, and as such my hand fell onto the perfect ordinary doorknob in a perfectly ordinary house on a perfectly normal – but emotionally special – day.
And heaved open the door to abnormality with joy on my face. “Welcome, you’re a bit early but-“
I stopped midsentence. Dudley’s friends weren’t on the doorstep, no anything but. On the doorstep stood a familiar child, two years younger than our Dudder’s, wearing a freakily designed shirt over some shorts and leggings falling into plain black trainers.
At a glance, you wouldn’t think this thing to be anything but normal. An average preteen with neat black hair and abnormally luminous green eyes, but I knew better! For on our doorstep stood the most unnatural, freakish thing we ever had the decency to let into our home, a being we thought dead years ago. Gone, forever abolished from our perfect reality.
But reality is anything but perfect. My mind supplies as the freak tilt its head and monotonously remarks, as if in mock surprise. “Oh? Hello Uncle. It’s been a rather long time, hasn’t it?”
Mukuro Potter. The FREAK had returned. Stepping into our fine home the parasite’s green gaze slides across the hallway slowly, digging into every last drop of our normality with their abnormally bright eyes. Finally snapping out of my stunned disbelief at such a turn of events my consciousness is engulfed in red as my temper takes over.
Lashing out with my arm I go to grab at the bitch, something she half-heartedly side-steps before spinning around and viciously kicking me right into the wall with unexpectedly hard trainers. Slamming back into the wall with a crunch I fall to my knees, gritting hard I brashly try to stand with my injured – and probably broken considering how bruised they are – legs and lower torso but fall back heaving as I spit blood onto the floor in a fit of gasping coughs.
When everything returned to focus, adrenalin and rage pressuring the pain into submission, I look up and right into the barrel of a small revolver. Something I’d only before seen in TV shows and suddenly, without warning, I felt something I’d long since tried to ignore when I learnt of a society capable of erasing and altering memories on a whim.
Despair.
*BANG* *BANG* *BANG*
And Vernon Dursley was no more, as three ear-splitting shots ring out into the quiet street like lightning.
<:-[Mukuro Potter]-:>
Carefully sweeping aside the spent bullet casings to the far corner of the room I take a last glance at the corpse of the man who broke my arm so long ago, and later left me in the hell that was an active warzone for two years. If he wasn’t dead, I must be the next coming of Merlin or some fantasy shit like that – language picked up from living among mercenaries for so long, never say they aren’t bad teachers for something other than war, gambling and sex at least – as the three bullets have cleanly cut into his arm, the one he tried to attack me with earlier – the kick was pure instinct, a habit I seriously need to learn to break if I want to be around civilians for an extended period of time -, and then one to the neck, right along vital blood veins, and lastly one to the brain, which’s purpose is self-explanatory.
A shrill scream echoes out from my side as a familiar horse-like woman steps forward. It takes them a moment before they notice me, but already fed up with trying the diplomatic option – Vernon didn’t even give me a chance to speak before everything went to hell – and already sick of being in this home again I nail my knife right between her eyes. Throwing it across the room in a blur as all light fades from her eyes.
Falling to the floor her body reveals a shaking Dudley, merely a child – blameless of his parent’s actions – who been rendered an orphan by my own actions. Honestly, I wish he was asleep as then he likely wouldn’t end up going for revenge at some point in the future. I may be talented but honestly giving time for a threat to grow is inefficient.
And thus, I march forward, without giving a second thought as I cycle through my bullets to a filled slot. With each step I take, I see he takes one back more, with each glance he shrinks inwards as the entirety of his peaceful reality crashes in upon him like the sky falling to earth. Likely he wishes that this was all a dream, a nightmare, and he’ll wake up the next morning with his parents shaking him up with pudding and kisses and all that pleasantry these people deprived from me for my entire life with their actions.
Shifting the gun between my hands I click the cycle back into the body. As he stumbles on some heavy wrapped boxes – so it was his birthday? How unlucky – and my arm rose as the barrel looked down upon him like the weight of the blade of the reaper to cast judgement on his fate.
“W-why?” He stutters out, his eyes void of all emotion barring one. The one emotion that I’ve grown to hate yet love during my short and fleeting life.
Despair.
*Bang!*
<:-[Junko Potter]-:>
Skipping lightly, I pass along dreadfully monotonous homes, parents holding both hands so that I don’t run off and likely cause some kid to break his leg again. As ‘apparently’: it was only thirteen times and that’s unlucky, isn’t a valid excuse to do it again.
I’m so bored~
Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored and bored. It’s kinda hopeless isn’t it, me being trapped in eternal boredom. So much boredom it renders me in a state of joyful Despair.
But still, apparently imma gonna meet ma sista today. The wait makes me Despair, the ideas and possibilities make me Despair, all of reality makes me Despair.
And so, I’m stuck here, with two absolutely boring parents – no appreciation of the finer points of the development and elegance of inducing Despair – going along a boring road with nothing but boredom and Despair as my sole support. At least the developing Hope of something interesting happening is failing and becoming Despair ever so more with each moment.
Squeezing my large two-toned plush bear lovingly I once more ignore my parents prattling about behaving myself. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I behave all the time. Every party, every time I’m stuck with those Hopeful brats’ day after day in tutoring for pre-Hogwarts. Gah, it makes me sick to my stomach how Hopeful they are. Though having little old Draco realise his worthless existence in which he perpetuates a lie led to a ‘very’ interesting result.
His swinging body, eyes fuelled with nothing but endless Despair, was so, so very sweet it makes me wanna kill him all over again! But instead, I started getting private tutoring, no more Hopefuls to pull into my Ultimate Despair.
Sighing once more to my boring existence I beg for something, anything interesting to occur.
And then, magically, ‘it’ happens.
*bang* *bang* *bang*
Three loud explosions ring out from a few streets away. My parents give a conspicuous glance to each other before they hurry me along as we all run off towards the abnormal occurrence. After passing a few streets in silence, another shot rings out – much louder now – and I see Despair sink into mothers’ eyes as she stutters out a brief. “No… it can’t be.” Before speeding off ahead of us both.
Grinning broadly, I feel the flood of Despair fall over me. The Despair of not knowing what’s going, the Despair of danger, the Despair of my mother who is so very, very scared now. Wiping off some drool that started flooding out from my mouth I feel my dad drag me all the way across to another generic street labelled as Private Drive.
The door to number four has been torn open, with mother standing there. Frozen in Despair at something I can’t see. Inching closer and closer subtly, despite my father’s protests, I look into the scene and see a sight that causes never before seen ecstasy to flood my senses as Despair physically slams into me.
As before me, my mother and father too, are bodies. Three dead bodies, their faces all contorted into expressions of unhidden Despair. Despair at the sudden and swift loss of something that so vitally stands at the centre of one’s being, their own life. Muffling a giggle my wide green eyes scan over the bodies, cataloguing each and every inch of Despair etched permanently into their features gleefully.
Is it my birthday? For this is the greatest present I’ve ever received!
But then, as father disapperates off to go call some boring people called Aurors I notice something, something my mother missed in her grief and father in his rush for aid. Footprints, the whale-like Dursley – I think that’s their name –‘s blood has pooled across the floor with small footprints running out from them and along to the back of the house.
I could give chase I wondered for a moment, I could go and be the ‘saviour’ the wizarding world regard me as. But ugh, I hate that title so much as it only gives Hope, so irritating of a title for me. Yet going against it later will render them all in a state of overwhelming Despair I remind myself as I battle the urge to cuddle up and feel the sheer Despair carved into their bodies flesh, thus revealing my deeper urges too soon for my plans to come to fruition.
Instead, I decide to wonder, who killed them and then it hits me. The Dursleys were the family where my sister lived. As such with footprints at that size it’s only possible it was her. Sister! Sister! Sister! Oh, how glorious of a Despair you’ve wrought.
I thought this title would’ve been mine alone but instead, I’ll let you share it for this wonderful gift you’ve brought me. Junko and Mukuro, the Ultimate Despair!
Cackling inwardly, I hide my true feelings under a well-crafted mask of shock, Despair having etched itself into me from merely witnessing this picturesque scene, I’ll see you soon sis~
And then, we’ll wreak a Tragedy unlike any seen before!