Light Beam and Dark Thunder were always meant to be on opposite sides. Enemies with a past and no possible future.
Superhero. Supervillain.
Righteous. Nefarious.
Popular. Infamous.
But there was only one little problem with that: they liked their...
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"Light?" I heard Dark whisper from the other side of the room.
"What?"
"Do you think I'm soft?"
I considered it. I thought about it for a while, I thought about how Dark had been around me?
"There really is no correct answer to that, is there?" I said, shaking my head. "I don't get why you decided to listen to me and call off becoming a superhero, but I don't think I'd say you're soft now?" No, it would be stupid to consider myself the center of his universe.
"Maybe you're just good at emotionally manipulating me?" He suggested with a smile. That was just too easy. If I were emotionally manipulating him, it would've taken longer. It would've been more involved. Crying and throwing a petty tantrum was never going to cut it. We both understood that.
"Maybe you just wanna convince me that I'm good at emotionally manipulating you?"
"Maybe I just wanted you to be happy?" I wanted to laugh. It wasn't exactly unrealistic? But it wasn't something I could see happening for a very very long time.
Dark was not a bad person. But that didn't exactly mean that he was a good person?
"Maybe I'm just essential to you plan?" It was more likely than Dark suddenly going soft on me?
"Maybe you want me to think that in some way, you influenced my decision? Maybe you just want to get inside me head?"
We were both suddenly closer? It wasn't clear yet which one of us had moved, if there had been any movement at all? At this point I'm even willing to assume that room somehow miraculously shrank around us?
"Maybe you didn't listen to me at all? Maybe you're just lying?" Nothing was out of the question with Dark. There was always the slightest possibility that he was messing with me. Maybe he didn't get stabbed at all? Who was I to tell?
It was Dark. Anything. Absolutely anything was possible.
"Maybe?" He smirked. He was never really going to tell me. All I had to go on was his word. And I'm not sure how much that was worth either.
"Maybe you're just trying to get close to me so that you can make me do your dirty work?" Maybe, some part of me hoped for that? Maybe I needed the thrill of feeling something again?
"Light, are we forgetting that, that's more your style?"
"I love how that implies that I have a style?"
"Oh we all have a style. I'm too impulsive to get someone else to do my dirty work--let's not forget the lack of consequences I have to face. It numbs the thrill. Unless I get involved personally."
"So what's your style?" I asked.
"Chaos. I thrive on it." His answer felt rehearsed. But it felt like he meant it? Like he didn't just say that to get me off his back? Like he had thought about this for long enough to come up with an answer that satisfied him.
