In the same vibe as Percy choking Akhlys, may I suggest :
Nico causing wounds to necrotize. Even from a small scratch on your finger, it spreads so fast your only hope is an amputation asap.
Jason holding the air still in your lungs. You're not dying because you don't have air, but because you can't get it out and are literally choking.
Hazel controlling stones in jewelries. Imagine getting chocked by your necklace, your finger being sectioned by your ring, being handcuffed by your bracelets, your head being crushed between your earrings...
Thalia manipulating the electricity in your body. Causing your nervous system to move in certain ways, or just shutting down your brain activity.
The big 3 are terrifying, and I wish we would've seen them (others than Percy) being more op. Cmon Rick, show us reasons the gods are afraid of them !
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bluestar spending the last months of her life convinced her entire clan are traitors out to get her, fireheart desperately acting as a bridge between them even though the clan resents and blames him for their problems, only to remember in her last moments how deeply she loved them all and is loved by them
mistystar spending her entire life pretending that her whole clan didn’t allow what happened to her + stonefur + their apprentices to happen, putting aside her bitterness and grief and rage to be a good leader to them, feeling like her son reedwhisker is the only cat she can truly trust to have as her deputy, hoping desperately she made the right choice by staying. and then finally, when she is the oldest cat in the clans, she gets the chance to reform things, to change the rules to prevent something like tigerclan from ever happening again, only for her clan to look at her and say you’re fucking crazy, why would you want this, that could never happen again, maybe somewhere else but not here, and in her last moments while her last precious child is far off in the woods being murdered and her heart is giving out she realises her mistake
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Tim has noticed something odd, about the Demon Brat.
Sometimes, the Demon Brat would look to his left, as if to start a conversation, or as if anticipating someone saying something, only to freeze. Just for a moment, a half second, because nobody was there, before looking away with painful expression.
Months later, Tim decided to stand there, just to see what would happen. The brat didn’t look at him once, and Tim found that curious, and odd.
Another odd thing about his new, murderous brother, is that he refuses to look into the mirror. That’s not true, exactly: he would look in the mirror for basics, for necessities.
Tim realized, months of observations later, that the brat didn’t look himself in the eyes.
Strange.
Tim had asked him, once, why he didn’t. As expected, all he got was a “It’s none of your business Drake.”
But that didn’t stop Tim from wondering. Tim is, if nothing else, curious to a fault and persistent to an illegal degree.
And so the strangeness would continue, and Tim would wonder.
The brat would look to his left, pause, and then look away. He would deftly avoid mirrors, and when asked why he would sneer and avoid those questions, too.
Until he didn’t.
Until he came back to the Cave battered and beaten, some dreary autumn day, the Demon Brat unusually sullen and quiet and off his game. He had sat through the lecture Bruce had given him, and sat through the quiet reaching out from Dick, and sat through the cajoling teasing meant to rile him up, to get him to say or do anything per the norm, with an unusual aplomb.
The brat apologized, said he was fine, and ignored the rest. He told Bruce he wouldn’t patrol tomorrow, and would stay home from school, because clearly he wasn’t feeling well.
It was like Damian wasn’t there, fully.
So when Tim saw that the brat’s door was open, the next day, he peeked in.
Of course he did.
And there the brat was, sitting in front of the full length mirror he usually had covered with a cloth when it wasn’t in use, reaching up and staring directly into his own reflection’s eyes.
“Demon Brat?” Tim asked, stepping in and concerned about the look in the other’s face. There was no answer.
“Damian. What’s wrong.” Tim stood behind the boy, watching as Damian touched the corner of his own reflection’s eye.
“The color’s wrong, Drake.” Damian finally said, matter of fact and almost broken, absent-minded.
“What?” Tim asked, trying to see what he was talking about. Nothing was wrong, nothing was changed. Damian met his eyes through the mirror for a long moment, but Tim didn’t understand.
“The color.” Damian reiterated, looking at his own reflection again.
“The color? Of what?” Tim and Damian were never close, not really, but he was starting to feel like something was slipping away, in this moment. Damian dropped his hand, and finally looked away.
Without answering, the boy got up and carefully draped a cloth over the mirror, ushering Tim out of his room silent as the dead.
“Leave me be for today, Drake.” Tim reached, opened his mouth to try and say something, because something was wrong, but what?
But Damian simply shut the door softly.
The sound of the lock engaging felt strangely, and utterly, final in a Manor full of lockpicking detectives.
Tim laid a hand on the door, and mourned.
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