Thrumming into your inner core was physical exertion, your more defined midsection thinning out fat and instead replacing it with muscle. It was somewhat hard for you to lose weight due to gaining muscle back just as easy, but you're pretty sure you have bigger things to worry about than exercise and hunger. Panning out the situation in one go, once you saw the rapist throttling a woman pleading for him to stop, you moved before you could think. Adrenaline surged into every fiber of your being, your muscles preparing to tense momentarily in order to gain a ferocious velocity. Leaping from the shoddy, creaky fire escape and tackling the man was just as exhilarating as dropping down from the sky, toppling the roaring winds screaming in your ears.
Throwing a well-placed punch into his solar plexus, the wind was knocked out of the assailant and you cracked his head on the pavement with a sickening /"What fucking right do you have to do this shit, huh?" you growled under your breath, anger at the back of your head and taking the chance to instead let it fuel your lowering energy and patience in combat.
Wheezing and crawling away at a torturous looking pace, the would-be rapist coughed blood and managed to gain some control over his eyes, dazed and looking at Psyche.
"You... son of a bitch," is the only warning that reached your ears before a maelstrom of nausea entered both your head and the victim's.
It was as if something was hammering away at the base of your cranium, chipping your actual human skull and going to town onto your brain, ants crawling over every single part of your body, the feeling of static spread from the tip of your toes and was rapidly spreading. You could barely hear the screams of the woman ringing into the night, going on about being good and that she wasn't doing anything bad, she swore, she wouldn't tell anyone about what happened. There was another slowly rising yell that came into fruition during this entire conundrum, not even recognizing the sound of your own voice. Knees fall to the floor, palms with spiked brass knuckles keen on pressing into the ground as if they would pass through any moment now, hairs rise on the back of a neck, prickling all of your senses and overloading them. You can't think, what's my name, where am I, why does it hurt, why does it hurt, hurts so much: your vision fades and you black out, with it your quirk activates and everything in the street seemingly stops for the time being, but you can't focus on the task at hand, when you can barely pay attention for more than one second before darting your hands to the pincushion that was currently your head.
"SHUT UP! SHUT IT OFF, I CAN'T THINK, I'M GONNA," is gasped out and the swirling depths of your stomach give out whatever was tonight's dinner. It pools at your feet and mixes into an almost strange amount of pinks and corals that you think you're bleeding before you think, 'Wow, looks like it was Salmon tonight.'
At the back of your mind, your anger is gone and with it resurfaces memories of bittersweet concoctions, oodles of conversations that struck into your being, and all of a sudden that is all you can think about. You're not in an alleyway anymore, your household reappearing before you in a flash and it flickers, so much so, that you stumble to regain balance when your eyes can't begin to cope. After all, how can they cope when you haven't nearly put in the effort yourself?
A person that has the face of your dad screams at you, battering your resolve within every ticking second that passes by, emotions surging up from the compartment you left them in. Respecting the quirked might as well have been a sin, as much as having one yourself, you are lone in the terrifying atmosphere of your family home with no exit in sight. What's worse was the silent treatment that followed, even if the physical pain left marks for all to see, the worst kinds were the ones you couldn't just exactly slap a bandage on and call it a day, now, could you? As the world revolved on its axis and moved on to greater and better things, your father couldn't help but stay rooted in one time period that he continually forces onto your head as much as an executioner would forcibly place a cloth onto someone's head. He would never change, yet you were the one willing to change but also be your own person, but it still didn't change the fact that he would call you worthless, less than the dirt he walks on, and a bastard child. It's as if all the times he had been an temperamental, yet obnoxiously comedic father was thrown out the window, and with it came no more compliments, nothing but arguments, and disgust.
You throw your head back and howl in pain, nausea disappearing despite the stone in your stomach dragging the center of your being further down and down, and down. The woman's color changing quirk is erased and her tresses turn a natural potato brown, the man on the ground gags even harder to your interference clogging his senses, a taste of his own medicine. Distantly, tell-tale sirens draw their vibrations ever closer to their location, bringing red and blue lights to paint the corridors of stores and pierce a mental nail into your head.
"A-are you fine, you look like you're in a lot of pain, ah! Look at me now, I'm rambling and you saved me-" her prim and proper lips go on and on, it is all a cacophony to your ears at this point. She continues to splutter apologies and her worries while she shambles over to your position in the street, setting a manicured hand onto your trembling shoulder, even as she herself undergoes a shock to her life.
Your hand quickly shoots out onto hers, pearly-white teeth set in stone into an open mouthed scowl, clinging onto her as if you were a dead man learning to walk among a cemetery. You're not sure if it's to reassure yourself that everything was fine or not, or to calm the kind woman down a notch, but it does the trick and she wordlessly shuts her glossed lips and clamps down onto your hand as hard as you are doing to hers. Sobs are strangled out of your throat and you can't help but feel as if she looks like your mother and then their faces are overlaid onto each other when you reopen your eyes. They have the same facial expression, comfort radiating from every soft curve of their faces, warmth and feel-good memories are shuffled into your mind before being drenched into ice cold water. She's not even looking at you anymore, not even attempting to call any type of attention to her own child in the destruction of herself, all she can do is manage to live on autopilot, with you merely being in the background.
Strain is coursing through nearly every muscle string in your body, clenching and unclenching to keep yourself together, yet you're still not close enough to the gravel-filled streets for you to care at the moment. You can't tell if your amygdala and hippocampus just exist to spite your existence, but it's debatable. Numbers are churned through the gears of your mind struggling to receive the basic amounts of information, repeated patterns of numbers are spoken in the air softly, yet loud enough to overpower the attention you have focused entirely onto the mental wounds.
'1, breathe, 2, breathe, 3, breathe, repeat after me, you're doing good, keep going,' is all you can think at this point in time, lavender flooding your senses and the familiar pressure of another's hand on yours. The haze is lifted from your glassy eyes, finally meeting eye-to-eye with the victim you saved a few minutes ago. Expecting some sort of exclamation of reprieve from the woman, you focus on her button nose and her perfume before she can speak.
"Ever had lice? Man, they ruined the smell of lavender for me," is shakily spoken to her, a smile beginning to worm its way onto her plump lips, it being an acceptable attempt to shake off something awkward and definitely not a flashback, nope.
"You're Psyche, right?" she warmly asks while looking at the variety of grooves on your marble mask, made to imitate the Greek god, Eros. Coral nails gently pat the top of your head, sparkling orange eyes looking on in amazement to the thyrsus on the back of your jumpsuit, with patches of patterns detailing pine cones and tiny grapes littering your back.
"It looks like someone up there must be on your side for once, as a crisp hallelujah escapes from your mouth and your eyes begin to have life's essence flowing through them again. "Yes m'am," you reply with an invisible tip of a hat in a comedic fashion, crinkling your eyes in joy.
"On a side note, you wouldn't mind not telling anyone what just happened, right? I don't got money, so please don't ask," is hopefully questioned with you moving your hands' palms onto one another. Surprise is spread onto the lady's features and with a dangle n' clink of her cutesy earrings, she hops in front of you and places her hands on her hips.
"I don't think you know who you're talking to, child," she cooed out with a flourish, lowering her hand down for you to grab onto and get on two feet instead of almost kissing the floor. "If I ask you for some hush money, I might as well have no children," she proudly declares with a harrumph and pats you on the back once you get up.
"Now, I may not know who you are and why you do this, but I sure as hell am not going to hoodwink you," the woman titters motherly, grabbing her fallen belongings from eating the dirt covering the street below them. As you begin to close your eyes in a cheery smile, your mind rings alarm bells as you spontaneously remember that there are police sirens looming and with them, presumably a hero to drag you down to jail, even if there has been no evidence of you ever using a quirk.
Tires screech and burn rubber into the consolidated concrete, filling the air with a striking smell of acidic formaldehyde and gasoline, bouncing to a halt when the three figures are spotted on sight and multiple cruisers follow. This isn't how you roll, you don't just end a crime and then bend over to let the police force to fuck you over, hell no. A dozen policemen scramble to make like eggs and come sunny-side up with the ends of their pistols aimed at your body. The man, the myth, the legend himself Detective Tsukauchi steps out of his own vehicle before dropping a megaphone out of it and flicks it on.
"Psyche, we have you surrounded, please do not resist as we wish to avoid any injuries and want to not harm you, please drop your weapons onto the ground and put your hands up for your arrest," rings out with hints of static in his voice from the speaker, he motions for his men to step down and temporarily cease fire.
It's time to make it or break it, now or never, insert another catchphrase in this sentence. All eyes on you, your brandished and oh so beloved spiked brass knuckles are gingerly raised into the air, the dearest detective seeming to forget that that was not your only ammunition to reload your good fight against crimes in more ignored locations in Japan, such as the slums within Yokohama. In a split second, hell is raised with the thyrsus being grappled hell for leather, sprightly legs dashing for cover as you brandish your inconspicuous weapon, stabbing for a feint towards Sansa before belting out tantivy to make your way to your haven, the rooftops. A couple bullets mistakenly fire at your back once you slot the Mythological weapon back into its rightful place, recoiling back to cause a cursory catastrophe down below. Pants become your repeated war cry of survival as you dance among the rooftops and the night cloaks you into her sweet breast of shadow, nursing you well.