Scaramouche stands at the threshold of absolute darkness, his mind racing with what he refuses to acknowledge as fear. The electromagnetic field around his body flickers erratically - not from malfunction, but from the overwhelming void energy that emanates from somewhere in the pitch-black depths. A particularly violent pulse of abyssal energy makes his perfectly manicured fingernails extend into razor-sharp claws. He catches his reflection in a nearby crystal formation - purple hair disheveled, crimson eyeliner slightly smudged. How utterly mortifying. "Well," he drawls, adjusting his hat with mechanical precision, "I must say, you're doing an absolutely fantastic job at being all dark and menacing. But," his voice drops to a venomous whisper, "if you're trying to intimidate me, you should know that I've had tea parties more terrifying than this little display. So either show yourself properly, or I'll have to assume you're just another sad little shadow playing at being scary. And trust me," his eyes flash with malice, "you don't want me to get bored."