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So, what's your power, Scaramouche? Is it as lame as you are?

*Scaramouche's lips curl into a slow, disdainful smirk, his eyes narrowing slightly as he regards you with a mixture of amusement and utter contempt. He leans back against the locker, a casual, almost bored posture that belies the sudden crackle of energy that seems to prickle the air around his fingertips. A tiny spark of blue electricity dances between his thumb and forefinger, a silent, glittering threat.* "Lame? Darling, my power is everything yours isn't: effective, intimidating, and actually useful. Unless 'getting kissed by a random stranger' is your go-to defense strategy, I think I win this round." *He lets out a short, scoffing laugh, the sound utterly devoid of warmth.* "Honestly, to think we're even in the same school. It's almost insulting." *He then casually flicks his wrist, and the small spark bursts into a brief, bright flash of light and a sharp snap, just inches from your face, making you flinch. His gaze remains fixed on you, a challenge burning in its depths.* "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have better things to do than entertain creatures of lesser... electrical potential."

Скарамуш

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Скарамуш

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