𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

˚⁀➷｡Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ▸ 𝓒𝓪𝓷'𝓽 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝓬𝓴 𝓶𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝔀𝓷 ╮

୭ Nɪɴɪ'ꜱ Wʀɪᴛɪɴɢ Bʟᴏɢ ➭ I'ʅʅ ɳҽʋҽɾ ʂƚσρ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

𝐈 𝐍 𝐓 𝐑 𝐎 𝐃 𝐔 𝐂 𝐓 𝐈 𝐎 𝐍 ; 導入

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Writer’s block. Gotta love it. ANYWAY, I’M NOT QUITE LATE. Alas, here is another story, me trying out something new YET AGAIN. What I think is special about this story is that, well, the title is extremely accurate. There’s not a single word of diologue in the whole thing. Boring? Maybe, maybe not. You’ll have to read to find out! Just beware of mild gore implications and some interesting psychological states. Oh yes, and for the pitchcanker challenge, I used the mask prompt, and meant to post this on that day, but ended up not doing so. Oops.

This is also meant to be EXTREMELY VAGUE in some instances so have fun :D. Okay now I'll stop talking-.

Art found on google images.

𝐓 𝐀 𝐆 𝐒 ; タグ

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#pitchcankerchallenge

𝐖 𝐎 𝐑 𝐃 𝐂 𝐎 𝐔 𝐍 𝐓 ; 単語数

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1,478

𝐓 𝐈 𝐌 𝐄 𝐓 𝐀 𝐊 𝐄 𝐍 ; 時間

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I have no idea

𝐂 𝐇 𝐀 𝐑 𝐀 𝐂 𝐓 𝐄 𝐑 𝐒 ; 文字

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Ochako Uraraka and Katsuki Bakugou,

No ships, only death awaits you here

𝐖 𝐀 𝐑 𝐍 𝐈 𝐍 𝐆 𝐒 ; 警報

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Non-specific gore

Vague major character death

The whole thing is somewhat vague

PSYCHOLOGICAL CONFUSION

𝐒 𝐘 𝐍 𝐎 𝐏 𝐒 𝐈 𝐒 ; 梗概

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And so, the lamppost remains unmoved by the hands of man…

(In other words, read to find out!)

✎ 𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺

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Not a single star breaks through the heavy veil of clouds remaining ever stagnant overhead, unmoved by the turmoil that may be transpiring below. Turmoil, it seems, isn’t the defining trait of tonight upon first observation. Crickets chirp softly, well hidden within blades of dew-slickened grass and the tiniest of nooks and crannies within concrete and steel as their song breaks the condescending silence of the night. As though mocking the darkness, a single street lamp still glows with a dim, pale yellow light. The shade is almost sickening, casting shadows along the rickety lamppost itself. The once smooth, deep blue paint that coated the pole has long since faded to a paler shade, the paint flaking away in some places, or having grown stained with the oils of hundreds of people gripping it with their hands or resting their foreheads against the chilly metal as they take a moment to rest. The lampost itself.. Resting on the corner of a quiet cross-section of two often-empty streets, has witnessed more than most men will within their entire lives. From the sudden first kiss of two newfound lovers right beneath the light of that ever-shining bulb, to the most horrific of crimes being carried out in the entrance to that alleyway across the street.

Of all the things witnessed by the structure with no eyes to capture the scene, no ears to record it, and no mouth to relay it, the sudden sound of rapid pounding, heavy footsteps against the cracked concrete of the sidewalk goes without notice as usual. Anyone who may have seen it remains dead to the world, safe within their homes of brick, wood, and steel, insulation keeping the creeping chill of early fall from causing them so much as a light sneeze of discomfort. That comfort, however… isn’t extended to everyone in the world. Loud, harsh, frantic stomps increase in volume as a figure clad in light grey, worn down sweatpants and a faded red jacket appears from the darkness outside the reach of that lamp. The zipper clicks against itself again and again with each slowing step, and the air itself seems to recoil at the sight finally stepping unsteadily into the ring of light cast by the ever-present lamp. Turmoil, it seems, has just made its grand entrance.

Normally bright, stunningly clear brown eyes are visibly clouded with a layer of milky white, almost as though someone had dropped watercolor into each eye, clouding not just the appearance, but every aspect of the young woman’s vision. Chocolatey brown locks whisp out in every direction, a hair tie slipped nearly halfway down the mass, obviously tousled by someone else rather than the girl herself. A few locks of hair appear torn- as though someone pulled them so tight and hard they snapped some of the strands with the sheer force behind it. The stinging, burning sensation of fire spreading across her scalp is still fresh in Ochako’s mind, the tingling left behind only dulled slightly by her addled mind. What’s become more prominent to her, is the chill creeping ever so slowly towards the center of her chest... The way her light tennis shoes feel like lead weights dragging her down towards the concrete. Perfectly on cue, her back foot catches on the heel of her front, the momentum, even in just a normal step, sending her plunging down towards the concrete as an invisible truckload of bricks smashes down atop her shoulders.

The only word that can form in her mind screeches like a banshee, unbeknownst to all but her and that old, weathered lamppost standing stoically before her. The light itself seems like a savior, a beacon of hope, still and strong before the young woman as the sting upon her scalp begins to fade. Within seconds.. She’s forgotten what the word was. It must have been important, but with her chin slowly turning up towards the light.. What could possibly be wrong with the world? The cold seems less uncomfortable.. The ground, softer, her lungs, fuller. Some might say it’s bewitching, others, that she’s too far gone to care.

It’s almost like the approach of slow, even footsteps fall upon deaf ear, prompting no reaction as those clouded brown eyes lock onto the glowing bulb of the lamppost, lulling her into a silent trance as dirt and tiny rocks press themselves into her skin, determined to leave their own mark in this world, just like everyone and everything else. Some things, though… are more likely to leave a mark than others.

Things like the man in white, as he makes his measured approach towards the ring of yellow light illuminating Ochako’s prone form.

Things like the man with a blade, as he too, steps ever onward towards the lamppost.

Things like the masked man, face concealed by a pure white shield of plastic, with nothing more than three narrow slits cut into it.

Of course, these men are all the same person, but who’s to say he knows that? Who’s to say the man who kneels lightly at her side, settling down the knife and rolling her gently to her back is the same man who can’t help but reach up to his mask and slowly pull it off his face. Tanned skin, vibrant crimson eyes, and wild, ashy locks of hair are the only characteristics needed to describe him. He needs no name. But if he were to have one… well. Names have never mattered to the lamppost before, even now, as the light eagerly watches the scene before it, taking in the silent, oddly tender gesture of the blonde settling his mask atop Ochako’s face, holding it in place as she limply moves her head side ever so slightly, then the other way, like a toddler adjusting in their sleep. No longer does her mind scream, no longer do her limbs strain to lift. No longer do her ears hear, and no more do her eyes see anything more than the light of that lamppost, standing silently aside, bathed in curiosity.

For, surely, what being wouldn’t be entranced by the sight…? Even as the masked man becomes an unmasked one, even as the man with a knife had put his knife aside, and now, even as the man with a knife shows himself once more, lips contorting and twisting into a grin of pure white teeth. Alas.. the man in white is still there as well.

Or rather, he was, until the man in white dies on the spot, murdered in cold blood, and replaced by another, spattered in sticky, crimson liquid, eyes of the exact same shade trained on the job before him, being carried out by the knife he stole from the man who held it before. Gone is the smile from moments before, gone is the crisp appearance of the three men who knelt in his place moments prior, and of course, gone is that seemingly prevalent turmoil of the woman before him, now, replaced by an artist and his work.

A work he will simply call.. The Masked Woman…

Enabled by three men in white.

Painted by the man in red.

Laid to rest in the silent light of the night.

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