One-Shots [Boboiboy]

Underworld

He wasn't supposed to see him, yet he did.

The storage room was dark, the lights on the ceiling flickering between life and black. A figure stood at the deep end of the rooms, just between two shelves of emergency supplies and discarded helmets.

"You're not supposed to be here," Boboiboy said stiffly, hands brushing against one another upon instinct's guidance.

The figure turned, his form nearly invisible, mist evaporating from his body.

"And you are?" the figure wisped, voice hollow.

"That doesn't matter," he snapped. "I want to know why you're here."

The figure paused, but the smoke billowing from him didn't. Milky eyes darkened by the black smoke fell on the young hero, his ashen grey lips arching into a thin smile.

"It doesn't matter," the figure quoted, rather amused. His smile vanished as soon as it arrived. "You can see me. And how is that?"

"I wish I knew." Boboiboy pursed his lip, trying to mask his growing fear. "You can't hurt me, and I can't hurt you. We're on mutual ground, and I need answers. Why are you here?"

Answers were not what he had gotten, but a chuckle instead. The smoky being stepped towards the brunet, his shadows curling in his wake, his short journey heavy but there were no footsteps left behind, nor the sound of his misty metal soles clicking on the iron floor.

Boboiboy stood tall, his confident posture never once wavering. However, his the uncertainty of his eyes had betrayed him, the fear lingering behind the forced glare. He was never one to hate, and he was not one to fear. He had faced villains far worse than this, and this soul can not bring any harm to him.

"You're a stubborn one, aren't you?" the spirit bellowed, his empty voice resonating through the storage room, white pupils staring straight into the hero's eyes, the gap between them so reachable that the cold mist brushed against his face.

He exhaled from his nose, the smoke unaffected by the breath. Words climbed up his throat, but his tongue remained unable to function.

The ghost saw his silence as fear, his ghostly self circling the young boy, as if he was a predator and he was the prey, a lion patiently waiting for its moment to pounce on the unsuspecting deer.

"You're a bit too young to be hunting spirits, aren't you?"

"I've dealt with worse," Boboiboy murmured. "It's sad but true. I'd rather do this than my daily routine."

"Ah, words of the infamous spirit hunter!" the spirit exclaimed. "The Emperor has you on his mind. He wants you as his personal knight."

Grunting, the brunet's expression hardened, his brows pressing into a tight frown.

"Thanks for the offer," Boboiboy replied coolly. His hand swept through the air before him, unreadable, silver engravings emblazoned on his arm, forehead and fingertip, the pure energy flowing through his body. As if it was a phoenix reborn, silver fire gathered into a cluster, forming pages and undepictable codes, then a charcoal black book cover sealed the deal, with the words Necro carved into the stone.

White, silvery pages flipped automatically, as if they had come alive. In a sense, the statement was correct, but not exactly.

Boboiboy raised his finger, his index finger glowing from within, a metallic silver originating as mist accumulated around the ghoul. "But I'll have to decline."

The ground beneath the spirit fissured, black smoke escaping the cracks from the Underworld. The gas formed into solids, dark tendrils latching around the ghoul's ghostly body. The ghoul, however, did not display fear. As the tentacles were wrapped around his neck, they began to pull him under.