Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

As the ceiling gave out.

Chunks of rock—some as large as coffins, others no bigger than fists—tore free and fell like punishment. The roar of it drowned out everything else. Stone cracking, air screaming, dust rising.

Everyone saw it coming.

Everyone knew they weren't getting out of the way in time.

Don had taken hits already. His legs burned with dull fire where jagged stone had torn into him—nothing fatal, but enough to soak through the fabric and stain his pants with blood.

Still, he stayed standing. Even as his bones screamed and his limbs protested, he refused to fall.

Hathaway lay still, head tilted just enough to see the sky vanish beneath descending ruin. He hadn't even finished tying off the mangled limb below his knee. There was no outrunning this. His sidearm was gone. His helmet was gone. And now, maybe he'd follow.

Charles fared worse.

He had managed to stand on one leg, barely. His head dripped blood down one side, and part of his left wing glistened with a thick red streak. His arm hung limp, ribs visibly shifting wrong under his attire. He looked up, jaw set—but his eyes said it clearly.

He couldn't move fast enough.

Don looked at him.

Looked at the falling rock.

And didn't think.

He acted.

He exhaled once.

Then raised both hands, fingers splayed, palms trembling.

**VMMMMMMMM—**

A strange hum filled the cavern. Not audible at first, but felt. Like static building up inside the skull. Like air being warped around thought.

The falling stones—stopped.

Mid-air.

A hundred tons of death, suspended like props on invisible wires. Caught mid-motion, their impact paused by something unseen.

They shimmered slightly. A faint blue hue glowed around them—like fog in a bottle, flickering across their jagged edges.

The same color now bled into Don's eyes.

He stood beneath the carnage, arms raised, veins in his neck straining, lips drawn into a grimace.

Telekinesis.

Everyone was shocked.

Even Father John froze, eyes locked on Don.

"What?!" he barked, the word a violent rasp.

Don didn't answer.

He couldn't. Every second was pressure. His arms shook violently, breath turning ragged, blood starting to drip from one nostril.

Father John's shock didn't last long.

"Attack him!!" he howled. "Now!! Kill him!"

The remaining creatures in the cavern—still many—charged.

Don saw them. Just at the edge of his vision. A blur of snarls and limbs.

He gritted his teeth harder.

He couldn't hold this for long.

But something shifted in the air again.

Charles.

Despite his injuries, he had taken flight. Not high, but fast—low altitude, maximum control. He flew toward Agent Hathaway's position, wing slicing through descending rock—KRSH—SNKT—THMP—clearing the danger just enough.

Don saw this.

It was enough.

He let go.

**THNK—THNK—CRASH**

The suspended rocks dropped again—this time behind him, crashing harmlessly into the ground where no one stood.

Don turned, hands still trembling—and saw the creatures rushing him.

He didn't wait.

He activated his ability again.

**VMMM**

The creatures froze mid-charge.

Held in place like puppets tangled in their own strings. Their limbs twitched violently, trying to move, trying to scream, but locked.

Don's nose bled freely now. His temples buzzed.

Still, he moved forward.

No more scanning. No more highlights.

He knew their weak points now by heart.

One punch crushed a throat. Another broke a spine. He shattered ribs like dried twigs, bodies folding around his fists with each hit. Blood splattered in arcs. Bones cracked like fireworks.

He only stopped when the last one hit the ground.

Overhead, rocks still fell—but not directly. Don weaved through the chaos, ducking under the large ones, punching smaller ones mid-fall—CRK—SHKT—as he made his way back toward the others.

Meanwhile, Charles landed near Hathaway, shielding him with his own body as smaller stones and clouds of dust showered down.

The winged man breathed hard. His gaze drifted toward Don, still standing in the wreckage.

There was awe there.

Not just for surviving.

But for what he'd done.

What he could do.

Charles looked down, briefly.

Then back up at Don.

And his expression didn't fade.

It deepened.

Soon, the last of the rocks crashed down with finality—THRRMMMM—KRK-KRAASH—burying corpses, shattering stone, and widening the already devastated ceiling. The impact left behind more than debris. It left sky.

A hole yawned open above the battlefield, wide and jagged, framed in the pale fingers of root systems from trees above.

Moonlight poured through it in thick, clean beams, streaking the dust with silver. The stars blinked beyond, distant and indifferent.

Charles stood at the edge of the wreckage, chest rising and falling unevenly. His left wing drooped slightly, still slick with blood, but he held himself upright. His eyes didn't drift. They locked on one figure.

So did Don's.

He hadn't moved since his last attack, his body heaving with effort. Blood was still dripping from his nose, his legs trembled faintly beneath him, but his gaze was fixed forward—on the only enemy still standing.

Father John.

Or what remained of him.

The dust thinned, curling away like breath on cold air.

And there he stood—face twisted, body twitching, fury rolling off him in waves.

"No, no, no, no!" he shouted, voice unhinged. "This isn't what Mother wanted! No! No! No!"

He grabbed his own arms, fingers digging in hard. His nails had grown—subtly—but enough to pierce his skin like talons. Blood welled up immediately, thick and dark. He didn't flinch. He did it again.

**SLK—SKRRT—THNK**

He raked his arms down with both hands, shredding his own flesh in a violent tantrum. The blood fell freely, splattering the stone beneath him in erratic arcs.

"You stupid meatsacks!" he howled. "It's all your fault! All of you!"

He swatted again. Then again.

Charles and Don stood frozen. Neither attacked. Not yet. They glanced sideways at each other—just a flicker—each waiting to see what the other would do.

Don's muscles tensed. His stance shifted.

But before he could launch forward—

**FWMP**

Charles moved first.

Not at Father John.

Up.

He shot through the air in a sudden burst of flight, cutting through the moonlight like a streak of metal. His path angled directly toward the hole in the ceiling, past roots, past the jagged stone.

Don's eyes tracked him. So did Father John's.

For a second, the twisted priest said nothing. Just stared.

Then—

"Ha—haha! You meatsacks are all the same," he spat. "Pathetic! Scared of death!"

He turned toward Don, raising his arms as if to deliver some grand decree.

"Now—!"

But he stopped.

His eyes lifted again.

Charles was coming back.

Descending.

Fast.

A blur against the stars. Wings tucked, body tight, dive angled like a missile.

Father John's eyes widened.

"How dare you—! How dare you try and trick me!"

Then—**GRK—RMMMBBL—**

The ceiling above Father John began to shift.

The other half of the cavern groaned.

Cracks formed like veins. Dust sprayed from between stones. Chunks began to fall.

**KRSH—KRKRK—THNNK**

Even at Charles's speed, if he stayed on this path, he'd hit the falling debris dead-on.

He saw it.

But didn't stop.