Despite the itch that lingers beneath the surface of his burnt, scarred skin Dabi can't help but be amused by his current circumstance. A hero claiming to want to join the league, as if he'd buy into that bullshit. The weather is awful, yet he finds the rain somewhat soothing. Even if standing in it, allowing the water to seep into his always angry, burning flesh is a recipe for infectious disaster, the sound itself is a calming presence to the maddening chaos of his mind. A swirling hurricane of vengeance and anger that simmers even when the flames aren't being unleashed.
Snatch's words like to kick him when he's down, a reminder of the grief he's given countless people. Of all the things he's taken that can never be returned. Still, he's not entirely to blame, Endeavour is as much at fault for Dabi's sins as he is himself. His orange fire the reason for Dabi's blue ones, his attitude and sickening desires the entire basis for the Flame Villain's existence, and yet he parades around, playing every much the grand knight, the powerful protector of society, as if he even holds up a candle to All-Might, can ever truly come close. Dabi admits he's never been fond of the Symbol of Peace, but even he can see that the man lived up to his ideals no matter how hard he fell in the end, which is more than can be said for Endeavour. The false hero doesn't even hide his brash nature and yet people still trust him to save their lives when the chips are down, it's embarrassing really. That civilisation has come to such a pitiful place; fragile citizens clinging to desperate illusions just to feel a fraction of peace. If it weren't for Stain, people wouldn't even be questioning the system now, and yet his actions have stirred everything up, scattered the lies the heroes tell to the wind and allowed those who seek out the truth to latch on to a hope no one really ever carried before, no one who cared that is.
The reminder of his meeting with Hawks sends a soft, soundless laugh tumbling from Dabi's scarred lips, as if he would ever trust someone so easily influenced by the false ideals he carries. The wing hero is nothing but a fraud, even if he views himself as more important than the rest, or at least more on the ball. Dabi knows full well his grand speech at the ranking ceremony was as much a trap to lure him and his comrades into a false sense of security and trust as it was to get the audience riled up, to play every bit the popular wingman that he appears to be for the public.
And yet, despite his reservations, he still wants to be wrong, to believe that maybe there is some sense within that birdbrain after all. Maybe, after he's proven himself to be a decent liar if not a worthy asset, once he joins the league the curtain will fall and the dishonesty and falsehood will shine so brightly, that poor little birdie won't have a choice but accept he's been tricked, a pawn caught up in society's game of messed up chess. He'd be like Ircaus falling from grace into the murky depths below, and oh, wouldn't that be sweet, to watch a hero drown in the shadows that Dabi calls home. To have him be a true, dependable ally instead of a fake one.
Everything I do is in the name of advancing the league, he'd said, as if!
The buzz of his phone alerts him to a text, and he slides it out of his pocket to check, hoping it's not some random check up from Crazy. If she spent her time actually trying to get different blood types instead of fawning over that green haired UA kid, she might actually be useful. Her quirk is efficient after all.
A frown creases his forehead as he realises it's from Giran, the text is simple as it always is with him; New recruits interested, reliable sources, meet at the usual spot tomorrow. 5:30 sharp, don't be late. Oh, and try to play nice this time.
Dabi scoffs, even as the guilt festering inside him flares unbearably hot for a moment, higher than the constant heat which crawls beneath his flesh, rotting him from the inside out. It steals his breath, constricts his lungs, tightens his chest and throat; an aching, pulsing, living, breathing thing within him that oozes and thrashes daily. Imprints of people his flames have charred, even if they were only, mostly, low level scum, burns in his head like residue ash. Vague silhouettes, fragments of outlines flicker and dance in his mind's eye of parents, siblings, partners and children; families who'll forever mourn their eternal dead, visit graves and suffer loss, all because of him and his wretched hands. His devouring flames, the product of everything wrong with this foul, infuriatingly corrupt society.
Dabi resists the urge to incinerate his phone in an attempt to unleash some of the fury boiling away in the pit of his stomach. Disgust lingers on every breath, seeping through the pores of his skin that remain and fueling the warmth of the dead tissue held together by silver staples glinting in the dim moonlight.
He'll change the pitiful fate of mankind, burn the current world down and build a new one in its place, forge it of vengeance, fire and cleanse himself of his demons in the process, or die trying. He casts a wary glance at the rain still pouring from the sky, trapping him instead a while longer. The dark, overcast sky reminds him of the power All-Might once wielded to change the weather itself with fists and fury. If the previous lead hero taught him anything, if Enji Todoroki gave him any gift at all, it was the knowledge that all it takes to alter the very foundation of a world is the conviction of one single soul, as charred and blackened as it may be.
Stain had proven that by shaking the country to its very core, enticing those who desired more than shallow chaos to step forwards and really aspire to make an impact. Villains like Dabi, who will carve out the truth through blood and brimstone if need be. As water raps heavily against the warehouse windows, a slow smile creeps along his scarred face. After all, illusions only have so much power, eventually all secrets see the light.