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How many times?
I know the times I've seen you use it, at least.
As for the other times? I haven't a clue.
So innocuous, or so it seems. Even now with all this technology, it's like we still only have a baby's understanding on the world inside of this world.
Quirks, that is. Or meta abilities if you're old school. All the same thing. Different socio-political definition. Whatever words someone uses to describe these biological processes are not important in the long run. Not like the other problems. Not like this aspect.
That lack of understanding is especially true with your quirk, my friend. Out of all the blood consuming villains that were raised on nothing but violence I've crossed paths with, those I have silently observed who have powers that would render them demigods in the ancient world- yet like the rest of us mortals they are busy with their insignificant routines, and the monstrous heteromorphs of the streets that barely pass as humans, or what can be loosely defined as human in this day and age. None of those quirks terrify me. Not like yours does.
Carny clutched her open drink as he watched the young woman converse with her friends and lover, lounging in the dorm commons area together. Laughter erupts from them. Looking down at his reflection in the dark liquid in silent contemplation. He takes another sip from his can
...I've begun to realize it only recently. Only when I've had better control of my quirk, or moreso, understanding.
I don't see it on a surface level, but I feel it on a deeper level that nobody else could possibly figure out.
Every time I see you warp somewhere, something about you always feels different. Something felt off every time.
Something I couldn't put my finger on. Until now.
It feels like I'm looking at a different person each time.
Because I am.
I've finally figured out how your quirk works, and I feel like I am 20 years too late. I don't doubt that the doctors knew from the beginning what was going on, but what professional- what remotely ethical person would dare to tell someone something that horrific?
Every reconstruction of you, every time you burst into beautiful pearly petals and fade away, is the last time I see you. When you reappear, it is never you. It's someone new. Someone wearing your face, using your name, thinking your thoughts.
Which of you have I come to known? Which of you will I know last? Does someone need to be born to live? Does someone need to be born to die?
I can't say I ever really knew Mei. But I know each version of you.
But it's always you.
It's never Mei.
And you haven't been Mei for a long time.