Night of Blood and Fire
Looking out over the city, searching for those who had fallen from the path of true heroism and needed to be corrected, Stendhal glimpsed a truly massive plume of smoke stretching up to blot out the sky. Turning toward the location of the smoke, Stendhal found that it wasn't merely smoke, but a massive, raging fire that looked to be consuming what looked to be an entire Ward.
Hurrying across the rooftops separating him from the beleaguered Ward, Stendhal narrowed his eyes as he leaped down from the rooftops and set off into the burning depths of the Ward before him.
The sight of people all around him, those who seemed to be normal citizens as opposed to those who had declared themselves Heroes in the system that had been created in the modern world, drew Stendhal's attention for a long moment, and grinning under his mask he moved deeper into the burning cityscape. Those who had once lived in this place were accounting themselves as well as anyone could ask.
There were heroes in this place; true heroes, of the kind Stendhal had been searching for for such a long time.
Dragging out another of the struggling citizens, Stendhal paused for a moment to drink the water that one of those treating the citizens in this place offered him, before making his way back out into the burning night after freeing himself of his burden.
Another of the citizens of the burning Ward – he'd heard it called Rosaru, a place he'd not been before this night and a place it seemed as though no one else would ever go again – helped Stendhal to drape a soaked cloth over his back, wrapping another around his face to ward off the smoke that filled the streets and rose thickly into the air. There were others around him now, soaked cloth draped over their own backs and wrapped around their faces as well, and Stendhal followed another of the citizens into the collapsing remnants of the building they were attempting to evacuate.
There was a man standing there, another one of those with Heteromorphic Quirks; holding up the ceiling with the large, chorded muscles of his arms, as well as a pair of thick, curved horns. All in all, the man holding up the ceiling for them had the appearance of a ram that stood on two long, strong legs. He also seemed to be faltering, either from the heat or else simply because he was coming to the end of his endurance.
There was something that Stendhal could offer this man, true hero that he was: drawing one of his short blades, he collected a small sample of the man's blood, licking it to offer him the steadiness that only Bloodcurdle could provide.
Once the last of the children and those adults who had been trapped in the building had been pulled free, Stendhal returned them to the triage area that had been set up as a gathering point. Anyone with a healing Quirk seemed to have gathered there, but what truly drew Stendhal's attention – as was only proper – was the form of All Might as he dropped off more people into the triage room then departed nearly as swiftly as he appeared.
For a moment, as Stendhal refreshed himself as quickly as he could manage, he found himself wondering about the lingering glance that had passed between All Might and a deeply cloaked healer. Still, that kind of thing was not for him to know. He had many other things to do, here on this dark, fire lit night.