Never mind the absolute stench rolling off in distasteful waves from the heap of corpses burning into a puddle, the bright azure fire floods your retinas, only barely registering that the arsonist-slash-murderer hadn't taken his eyes off of you. In nearly any other circumstance, you wouldn't hone in on the tiniest details before rushing in and developing a stratagem during, yet you can't help but feel urgency in actually knowing who you're dealing with for once. Bathed in an aura running through various parts of his body, blue licked the tufts of his spiky black locks, patchwork burns becoming as violet as fine grapes that happened to be scorched once or twice, before being rolled into sand and abused overall. Avoiding going any further than the top of his torso, a slight tinge of fear makes itself be known, of not being able to take your eyes off an absolutely demolished eyeball drooping into the fine ground paid by wonderful taxpayers. Multiple silver piercings glint in the fiery sight before your person, hashed together medical staples pulling whatever damaged skin the man had into a semblance of an actual face, barring the fact that he might as well have been Frankenstein's monster's rejected cousin.
His lanky form was accentuated by folds in his white shirt and rough around the edges overcoat, probably stolen from a Goodwill for all you knew; his demeanor was in the mold of some type of expression you actively chose to ignore yourself, something you hated to acknowledge once in a blue moon. Maybe it's a form of a fucked-up sixth sense that you had a broad hunch that people who have gone through some trauma could unfortunately recognize their fellow kindred spirits, however unwelcome it happened to be. The look in his eyes at first glance would only reveal an intimidation factor, practically saying "You really want to fuck with me?", an unsavory amount of disdain filling his eyes, not particularly uncommon for actual murderers, you think. Yet your uncanny ability to see through projected walls and motives of others borne from your deep-seated trust issues reveal confusion, fear, and a hint of irritation of a rather short person interrupting the extermination of a treasure trove of evidence that would be lapped up by police.
"Any clue on why you're sticking around this time of night, shortstack?" was rasped out in a baritone tone pleasing to your ears, probably the one thing close to pleasing in every aspect of this situation you decided to create. With a flick of his wrist, white-hot fury poured out of his palms, running down the very seams of his arms, causing steam to emanate from agitated burns on said appendages. Any trace of a human being was promptly smothered into the searing flames, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. It's surprising how multitudes of dead bodies can simply turn into a small amount of ash residue marring the ground of the alleyway, in such a small amount of time. In a way, you feel a sick sense of astonishment and respect for the other's technique, however morally destitute the actions were. Getting rid of the bend of his knees, presumably to combat kick back from his powerhouse of a quirk, he lazily rose up into a slight slouch and tilted his head the tiniest bit.
"It's rude to not answer someone when they're talking to you, did your mother ever teach you that?", he once again drawled out in a bored tone, resting his hands into the relative safety of his black pockets, starting to make his way towards you.
Snapping out of your trance-like state, you make your once distant eyes focus onto your addressee's face and gather your thoughts into an acceptable bundle of words in response.
"I don't think she's in any shape to teach me manners, better less treat me like her child in this day or age," you reply casually, matching his composure to a tee.
The faintest bit of recognition and familiarity pools into his blue eyes for a small amount of time before being changed into his otherwise neutral composure. Before he can utter a single word, you decide to treat him as a human being, despite what others may be appalled at.
"So, why'd you burn them to a crisp? I'm seriously asking this time, fingers crossed," is uttered as a rudimentary olive branch to the criminal in front of you, your head gesturing to whatever was left of the people that crossed the black-haired man's path.
At this, he keeps himself together and does not react at for the time being, eyes narrowing at the established normalcy you brought to the table, however ironic it was. It seems as if he contemplates brushing you off was worth the effort and burning yet another body for only the alley to hold as a pile of black and greys, and he reminds himself of your stature, assuming that you are merely a kid who had probably seen some shit.
"They're false villains," he grunts out in confirmation to your question, swerving his hand nonchalantly to gesture as if they were nothing. "No conviction, no goals, nothing but sick fucks that did bad because they liked being bad." He steps further towards you near the head of the alleyway, returning his hand to the comforts of his pocket and swaggering casually.
The clicks of his heels cease to tap the ground ceaselessly once he's in front of your figure, bringing his head down to stoop near your level and look down before you. "Is that all, or did you want to hear a monologue, kid?" is threatened out with his nicotine-tainted breath reaching your face, a taunt aimed to push a button, but then again, do you really mind if your buttons were pushed for the sake of knowing the truth? Not breaking eye-contact with the arsonist-murderer, you aim to please and so you don't really care about how dangerous the man is.
"Nah, nah, if I wanted that I could've just dragged my ass to the nearest rundown pub and asked some sad piece of work to tell me why his wife don't love him no more," you tutted, bringing yourself to the side of the man so you didn't block his exit but also being in a close enough range for him to not simply walk away.
"Let me guess, your father abuses you, right?" you add on to your verbal barrage, tilting your head in a form of mockery to match the man's, then wringing your hands to seal the deal, cracking your knuckles in the process. "I'm not just some dumb kid that drools at the word 'hero', and looks at anyone who does something remotely bad and screams 'villain,'" you get more up-close and personal with the blue-eyed criminal, making a point to not back down.
'Gotcha there, firecracker,' rings out in a pleasing sing-songy voice within your head, as you crack through the man's carefully crafted composure and cause him to sharply turn his head, widen his eyes, and bring his frame more ram-rod straight in the same lazy fashion he decides to show himself as. A hum is rang out in the dead of night briefly, seeing as he really had nothing to lose. What kind of older brother would he be if he crossed the line at killing children? Even if he did abandon his siblings in pursuit of torching his fuckhead of a father, there wouldn't be anything in store for him but more conflict when he tries to sleep at night.
"And it looks like you'd know how it is, wouldn't you?" is retorted back at you, the male not contemplating leaving any more as his interest was piqued, possibly in the most aggravating type of way. You make a show of moving your neutral lips into a bitter smile, not quite meeting your eyes but meeting the other's, cementing your point.
"Like you can talk, goth hobo," you snark back at him, momentarily moving your eyes to recognize truly how worn-down his entire being looks, along with his rags.
"Didn't think I would ever see the day where a kid stopped someone from burning corpses, just to try to be buddy-buddy," the declared goth-punk chuckles, his eyes becoming slits in the midst of his short bout of laughter, before fixing his eyes on you once again.
"I like to think there's too many people that love sucking hero-dick, y'know," you chortle out, your breath leaving you in some laughter as you double over shortly. Both of you find a moment of camaraderie in your jokes, your intent making itself known and the other finally recognizing your motives. It'd be a shame to do all that work and not open yourself up to a total stranger, in case all of it goes to waste and you can gain his trust. A rustle of clothes and the man pulls out an ancient flip phone out of nowhere, his black fingernails rapidly tapping its buttons and a resounding beep rings out within both of your surroundings.
"So," he says without looking up from whatever business is far more important than the matter at hand. "What exactly do you want, shortie?" the man shuts the device with one hand, bringing his focus back onto you. It's somewhat surprising that he cut your jib rather quickly, but it isn't something that annoys you so it really just serves to move things along.
"What's your name? I think I'd like to know who this crackhead of a dude is before me," you quip dramatically, earning you a giggle from your own belly and a smirk from him.
"I go by Dabi." is what he croaks out in his voice, turning away from you and finally resuming his stroll towards the end of the dank alleyway. Dabi stops himself before turning the corner, "Sure hope more B-list vigilantes would turn out like you, it'd make life easier," his decrepit loafers engulfed in ashes of the deceased moving out of your sight and along with it, the first meeting you would come to have with the notorious criminal.