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Black Hole sits at a table in an expensive restaurant. A waiter serves him the first meal of the night; an appetizer. They open the cloche, revealing a well done steak, seasoned to perfection. Black Hole tilts his head slightly in confusion — who serves steak as an appetizer? — but graciously thanks the waiter as they leave and picks up the fork and knife on his left.
Cautiously, he cuts a small piece out of the steak and slowly puts it inside his mouth. It’s here when he realizes he hasn’t eaten in so, so long: decades, maybe even centuries or millennia. He doesn’t remember the exact amount of time anymore. Maybe, just this once, he can splurge a little. He deserves this much.
No, no! Black Hole shakes his head in hopes of getting rid of the thought. He can’t give in; all his efforts in death prevention would be in vain. He could just imagine the looks on his teammates’ faces, seeing him devour everything in his sight like a feral dog. He had painstakingly built his friendships and team around preventing death and they’re the only stability he has. He can’t afford to lose them, to lose the tight grip on his leash.
Black Hole cuts another, larger piece out of the steak and eats it. The feeling of flesh against the inside of his throat is enough to make him gag a little; it’s so cathartic it brings him to tears.
Black Hole looks around at the other guests at the restaurant. They’re all happily eating away, without a care in the world. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s somewhat jealous of them.
He looks down at his next dish, the entrée. It looks a bit like massive tadpoles sloppily stacked together, and Black Hole swears he just saw them squirm around. Limbs, freshly cut off from the body. It scares him terribly, how powerless he is to stop his gluttony, how much he needs to eat, eat, eat. He thought he was better than this. Black Hole unbuckles his tightly fastened muzzle.
He picks an arm up with his hand and puts it in his mouth. He nearly chokes on the half-chewed meat, and instead of regurgitating, he swallows it, washing it down with water. It’s the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten. He hasn’t feasted like this in such a long time.
The waiter arrives yet again with a new plate; under it the same dish just served to him. Black Hole’s starting to grow impatient. He rips the meat apart with his teeth like an animal, letting out a strained “I’m sorry,” after every bite. When he swallows and the tender muscle glides down his throat, he thinks he’s going to throw up; it’s what he only deserves.
Black Hole is terrified of what he’s become. He’s lost count of how much he’s eaten; it’s never enough for his all-consuming event horizon. The empty plates pile high on his table.
This is the most euphoric he thinks he’s ever felt in eons.
Once he finishes up the last plate, he’s still hungry; he doesn’t think he’ll ever be satisfied. What happened in the past two, maybe three hours no longer feels real, and by god he hopes it wasn’t. A wave of nausea overcomes him, and Black Hole leaves the restaurant to purge himself.