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"Help me," the hero pleaded.
The villain looked down at them with a scowl, their shadow a small relief to the hero's overwhelmed senses. Power correction was brutal...especially when performed on an unwilling patient.
"Please--"
"Why should I?"
The villain's boot pressed down against their chest and the hero gasped, hands reaching up to grasp at their ankle weakly. They grinned through the pain, feeling somewhat delirious as they stared up at the other.
"Because you want to," they said. "Because you can't resist the opportunity to have me depending on you."
It was a long shot. They knew that.
Still they had hope: being blindly optimistic was part of the job.
They felt the pressure on their chest increase, breaths coming out in short, wheezing pants as the oxygen was slowly stripped from them.
"That's pretty presumptuous of you," the villain said.
The hero coughed out a laugh. "Yeah...Yeah it is."
Their vision was blurring. They could feel what little strength they had left depleting, the rough ground below them growing more comfortable by the second. They shut their eyes, mind too weary to notice the weight lifting off their chest, or the arms that wrapped under their legs and back, lifting them with more care than they'd know in years.