#BACK INTO THE DEPTHS WITH YE INFERNAL HELLSPAWN

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presented only with this context: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA 🗯

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You always found the word ‘oxymoron’ rather funny for reasons so quaint they shouldn’t warrant an explanation, but never like now has the full brunt of its significance made itself manifest. ‘A commodity that provokes an inconvenience’ definitely fits the bill, but the worst part, the punch that puts any hint of a smile K.O., is the realization that the moron in question is you. You’re the idiot for thinking how stupidly troublesome it is to have a driving license, a car, and your son’s school at barely fifteen minutes from his cram school. But you can’t really help it: now more than ever, you envy the humanoid sardines who have to press against each other every morning in an attempt to reach their destination while hopefully keeping their bone structure from becoming flatter than a paper. It would make things easier, relatively speaking.

You wouldn’t have to sit alone inside such a minuscule, intimate space with the sole company of your serene-looking son and the fresh knowledge that he’s the ringleader of a middle school gang, for example.

It’s been five minutes now. Exactly zero words have left either of your mouths, and at least one of them seems contraried by the fact that the other is curved into the hint of a smile that looks at a time peaceful and absolutely bereft of any guilt. It drives you nuts, to put it bluntly. And not just in a ‘I’m absolutely pissed by your attitude, you impudent son of mine’ sense. There’s plenty of that too, make no mistake, but the fact of the matter is that you honestly, genuinely feel as if you’re about to lose your wits and see them scatter about like light particles that turn normal clothes into a frillier version of themselves.

You can’t make sense of it. Of the truth you’ve been too blind to see. Of your son’s true colors. What really tugs at your heartstrings though, it’s that you weren’t ready. You, who spent your adolescence kicking monster tail by shouting flower names and erupting lasers from your heels. Miss Himawari Sonomura VonVermillion. You’re married to someone who barely fits any of the criteria that define a human being, and you’re having a harder time coming to terms with your apparent failure as a mother.

Ah. Yeah, that must be it. This isn’t a problem you can solve by yelling at the top of your lungs (as much as you feel like doing that) and punching it really, really hard. There’s no stuffy manual detailing the laws and rules that dictate how to properly face this challenge, either. You’re at a loss. No, let’s be fully honest here: you feel like it’s entirely your fault. The kid’s still his father’s son. You just thought you could overwhelm that truth, but you really ended up blinding yourself with a misguided sense of justice. Can’t blame the clouds if they feel like raining every once in a while, right?

It’s not that easy unfortunately, or you wouldn’t be waiting for the red light to turn green with your forehead buried onto the steering wheel. The main problem, paradoxically enough, is that you love your son. Of course you do, dimwit! Despite it all, Kyouya’s still Kyouya, not some terrible monster whose sole desire is to turn people into vegetables. Besides, you already tore that one apart almost two decades ago. Also, if it’s monsters we’re talking about, you already crossed the line by becoming the bride of their chief, so these moral quandaries shouldn’t even be such a big issue for you in the first place. But they are. They are and it hurts, because want it or not, you had expectations that were betrayed, worries that came to fruition, and an inability to realize it until it was too late. If it even is anyway. You don’t know. You may be a qualified lawyer, but in this moment, you feel like the most ignorant person on the face of Earth, and even viler than that. Like, almost as much as your husband. And that’s really damn vile.

Green light. There’s still about fifteen minutes to share together before reaching the cram school, where your beloved Valdios will likely settle the issue with some enthusiastic praises for your son, a bemused shake of his head in your general direction, and infernal teleportation to avoid the unavoidable punch you’ll attempt to throw towards his face. Your hands are sweaty rags tightly wrapped around the steering wheel, and you’re pretty sure that your teeth at this point are more ground dust than solid bone. You’re not exactly in the best condition to hold a delicate conversation, or any kind of conversation for that matter. It should be fine to leave things hanging, then. There’s no use in trying to solve a problem when you haven’t been able to think of a solution, or even to fully grasp the problem itself to begin with. Right? Right. R-i-g-h-t. Ri...ght...

Oh, hell no it ain’t right.

Come on, woman, remember who you are. Those fists of yours have met more chins than they’ve been caressed in their life up until now. The worst hellspawns still fear you, and rightly so. You were---no, you are a flame that burns brighter than the sun it dauntlessly faces. Are you going to back down now that your kid needs you the most, only because your adversary is your own stupid self? Hah, as if! Swallow it down, that venomous lump in your throat, and speak out loudly. You can’t, you won’t let it stifle the depth of your love if it’s the last thing you do.

“Do you have anything to say to your mother, Kyouya?”

“Absolutely nothing, mom!”

Goood at least throw me a bone here, kiddo! You ain’t making it easy for your mother, you know!?

Alright, alright, deep breath and then go for take two. Also watch OUT FOR THAT RED LIGHT... good job, you barely avoided breaking the law at the cost of nearly strangulating yourself and your son with the seatbelts. Sounds like the perfect opportunity to try again.

“R-right. So you have no idea what me and your teacher might have talked about?”

“Mmh, I wonder...?”

Look at him. Tilting his head and smiling that cutely, with his rosy cheeks and hair redder than yours. He would look like such an angel if it weren’t for the fact that he’s blatantly hiding the most devilish of intentions. It’s almost scary how sincere he looks, as if he really believes there’s nothing his mother dearest should be worrying about. ‘Almost’ because he’s still a long ways from the achieving the top in the VanVermillion school of mellifluous nonchalance.

Not for a lack of trying though, looks like.

“Kyouya.” Your voice is a disappointed whisper as you tilt your head to shoot a sideway glance at your son. That and rowdy screaming are the only two tones you feel capable of holding at present, so you really just decided to go with the one with less chances to attract the attention of the other cars.

“Yes, mom?”

“Have you been up to no good?” Such a simple question, and yet it feels like it took all your energies to tear it out of your throat. But you force yourself to do so, and to turn your head to witness your son staring back at you with the same sweet face as ever. His clean, prompt answer takes even more out of you.

“Not at all. In fact, mom, as of late I’ve been performing nothing but good deeds!”

He’s too far gone. There goes the pure and pristine image of your son, floating away from your desperate grasp. Goodbye, old hag... ahahaha...

NOOO! Come back, my precious, fragile flower! Too far! Too late! Your fingers are grasping nothing but the solid emptiness of the steering wheel. Huh? Hey, welcome back to reality, now press that pedal. It’s turned green in a while, already, and the cars behind are growing noisily restless.

“Goo---what’s so good about bullying?!” Calm down, don’t lose your cool! You can still save it, so lower your voice, you former delinquent! Just because you don’t want him to follow in the same footsteps as you doesn’t make you any less of a hypocrite!

“Nothing, of course. That’s why I’ve taken matters into my own hands, so to speak.”

“What, by becoming a bully yourself?”

You have to wonder what’s so funny that’s making him laugh behind the hand he uses to cover his mouth. You swear you can see your bewildered face reflected in his shiny, painted nails, however.

“Is that what Miss Takemoto told you, mom? You grown-ups really like misunderstandings, don’t you? No, I’ve never bullied anybody. I hate people like that, just like you... but, see, bullies right? They usually target loners, even though they’re the loneliest people of all. So I’ve taken away their reason to bully, simple as that!”

The grinding of gears inside your head sounds like rusted metal brushing against sandpaper and is half as efficient in your present state, but you think you’re starting to see some semblance of the greater picture as envisioned by your clearly amused son. At least you hope, because anymore confusion at this point would knock you out for real.

“By... making up a group?“

“Yes, exactly!” Aww, he seems so proud of your understanding. You’re not entirely sure whether the clapping is there to ridicule or praise you, though. “Bullying pretty much means ‘Give me attention!’, so by giving them the sense of cohesiveness and belonging of a group, they don’t have to seek attention anymore, since they’re already giving it to each other. It wasn’t easy at first, but it turns out that being able to lift the teacher’s desk with the auxiliary use of some magical power can be a pretty convincing display to support one’s offer. Isn’t it brilliant, mom?”

“Huuh...” Wonder whose parent’s vocabulary he learned the most from... Sure, the way he puts it does sound a lot less dire than how the teacher put it, to the point where you find yourself subconsciously nodding but... “W-wait, that’s not all I’ve heard. The teacher also said that you guys extort text answers from other students! What’s so magnanimous about that?”

“Oh, that...” Far from seeing him taken aback, it’s his shrug that counters your failed offensive with impressive skill. “Some students find the answer sheets by themselves. The deed has already been done, so me and the others just make sure that everyone else can reap the benefits by politely asking these people to relinquish the goods and spread them among their classmates. Nobody has to suffer low grades like this! It’s... what do they call it... ah, yes! A necessary evil! Adults do much worse than that, so surely you can overlook that much, no?”

Can you? It’s not like you can see anything with clarity right now. Might be because of the hand plastered against your face, or the silhouettes of your husband and son’s faces levitating on the windshield while they chant ‘You can overlook that much? Can’t you? Can’t you~?’ You actually do shoot a glance at your son’s extremely self-satisfied face just to ensure he didn’t actually shoot a minor curse in your general direction - better make a point to interrogate your husband just in case. Last thing you need is to learn he’s been giving your children lessons in the dark arts behind your back - you’ve been adamant about that ‘til this day, but you can bet that the edict will grow even stricter following what must have been the most tiring conversation you’ve had in years. And you’ve had lots of them, really: par of the course when you married a man who cannot quite understand the ethical conundrum involved with turning the postman into a hedhehog-shaped monster because he put a couple more publicity ads in your mailbox than desired.

You glance at the clock on the dashboard: around five minutes and you’ll have reached your destination. Five minutes you could fill with reprimands, perhaps even a slap, or, why not, words of praise for this eloquent brat who took one page too many from his father’s book and haphazardly mingled them with some from your own.

None of that ensues. You merely reach for your son’s head and, without looking him in the eye, brush the hop of his head with slow, immeasurable gentleness.

“Okay then. We’ll talk more about this later. Be sure to behave at the cram school.”

Lest you’d have to receive a phone call from a teacher telling you about your son set everyone straight by beating them up while dressed in a cutesy purple outfit dripping with magical photons.