Absinthe by IDKHOW - watch?v=3sTQu-AQM-Y
A nice song to go along with the start of the action.
Club atmosphere never failed to settle into the weights on your petite shoulders and pummel any sort of tension you had before delving into the literal hormonal bog that was the place. Amps and speakers seemed to be tuned to the maximum efficiency to delightfully destroy anyone's virgin eardrums, waves upon waves simmering along with vibrations in the air and making their distortions known, tuning into every crevice you currently had available to sync to the heavy bass beat. The tangy scent of Whiskey Highballs topped with equally sour Limes being tastefully placed on the rims of salted beer glasses filled the entrance, a swivel of your step to the right and modern deco tiles spoke to your soul, apparently as much as the group of young women who were gulping down far too many Umeshus to be impossibly intoxicated, one of the ladies in her form-fitting dress palmed the geometric tiles as if they were whispering to her how to find the meaning to life.
You couldn't help the giggle that bubbled listlessly out of your throat with no permission sought from your being, remembering how you expertly embarrassed yourself by staying up until 2 am with the only three things keeping you awake being delicious, buttery popcorn, a 5 hour energy drink you spiked with some truly bitter coffee, and the tell-tale convulsions your heart thumped faster than usual. If you were going to do a low-stakes mission, why not drag a little fun out of it, anyways?
Making your way past the cluttered, high populated bar stools pumped to the brim with drunken conversations and people of either sex, you decided to swim directly into the densely populated dance floor, feet shuffling from the front of the crowd being unreliable at best. Breaths skirted around your bare neck, enamored with the drunken stupor they had drank themselves into, a woman thrusting out her pert chest into the arms of a man who was eagerly dancing along the edges of her black bust coverings. You shook your head as to not hone into the wrong places at the wrong time, you could people watch others that were proceeding to act dubiously in public later, not when there were innocent people at risk of your failure.
At that you made sure to brush away any prolonged contact of the cramped space as if you were passing through regularly, looking over taller heads that arranged themselves at irregular intervals, forming a swarm of swaying bodies in the midst of the dance floor. To your utter dismay, when the step of your black platforms reached the fringe of escape from the frenzy happening in waves behind your form, a hand managed to plaster itself to the small of your back, knuckles flexing in a way you were sure you could feel the smile on the person's face even from the feel of their fingers.
"Now lookie here, a cutie tryna leave so soon?" was asserted without question to you, the unknown individual wearing a disgustingly saccharine smile decorated with an arrangement of sharp teeth, his head being nothing but spines and spikes that would undoubtedly pierce without issue into someone's flesh.
You knew by the way he presented himself, from his casual demeanor, his inviting posture that he would not give up until he was rewarded with what he sought being directly placed into his hands, nothing that couldn't be handled by your ineffable personality.
With the look in his sultry eyes being challenged by your increasingly intense nature surrounding your figure, you whipped yourself around to meet the older male and stepped up promiscuously only to edge in a hint of menace onto your expression, weaving an inconsolable web that drove your strings further to wrangle in the other.
"Oh, it's nothing personal," was drawn out tiredly from your shining lips, your hands reaching to clamp themselves onto the taller's shoulders in a show of affection, "I just have to run by Fuse for a bit to drop something off, y'know, business, amiright?" A chain draped around his neck fluttered with the movement of his head making its way closer to your sickly-sweet face, a surprising amount of understanding and minor disappointment filling his being behind his confident front, recognizing him to be a decent guy and not a creep who happens to not take anything in the dictionary other than "yes."
"Alright, I get you, just don't hang around his cronies for too long, they really got a nasty attitude," the young man made himself known as Soga, a regular patron to the place if you had ever seen one.
Kugizaki's brownish-maroon spiked hair bounces with the fiery pep in his step to resume his trek onto the dance floor, disappearing into the mass of bodies swerving their hips and swinging their arms to the thrumming tune being played by the Disc Jockey that was moving to the rhythm of her own song, neon additives flooding the area above her platform transforming into bright colors and shapes to add to the flavor of the music.
Relief reverberated through out your finger tips, spreading to the level-headed upper area of your body already focusing your eyes on the prize, Hirohito's backstage hangout and the pleading, pink veiled and strained eyes of his victims being allowed to be treated as a means to an end for monetary profit in exchange for soul crushing experiences. Little did you know that a certain slim male, occupied with angel dust powdering his nostrils and giving way to his psyche to go wild, caught a glimpse of your figure entering the metaphorical lion's den.
Unbeknownst to the traditional hero society, villains like him actually do feel pain and remorse. High amounts that cripple his stability for days on end, mementos of the days past drumming their guilt into his overworked mind, in fact. To the point in which he would pipe down and push away the glass pipe he had in the corner of his underwear drawer, forgoing the packet of grassy weed stashed in the ratty cabinet, hopping from club to club in the most seedy clubs in Yokohama, his eyes set on seemingly angelic powder that was his crutch.
Now to this you might say, 'Hey, Dabi, what the fuck are you doing, man?' That's precisely what he asked himself when he staggered into the club at its prime time, locals walking in strides to clamber on into the life saver the joint was.
One good look from the foreign bouncer revealed his immediate VIP card into the place, as the regulars hushed with the entrance of his glinting silver piercings and shoddily done staples, dragging his feet in unusually better luxury shoes that he had gleefully accepted as an involuntary gift from a rich faker. For once in his life, he wasn't wearing whatever the alley cat dragged back in with raggedy holes fluttering in lackluster air conditioning, black Versace safety pin hoodie hanging onto his skinny torso and his nondescript black shades that he had nabbed from a dollar store awhile back.
He was renowned by now in the area as his signature alias, although that didn't stop some people from letting their pride get ahead of them and nick him "Frankenstein." Seriously, everyone knows by now that's the goddamn mad scientist's name, not his test tube semen creature that got baked in nature's natural lightning microwave. Back to the point, being accredited with any sort of dealings involving Giran's name earned him a heavy reputation.
This he eagerly took advantage of, as his usual latent suicidal ideations came back to float in the shallows of his mind and foil any plans of him actually having a somewhat pleasant evening, even if he disliked the stereotype of villains taking syringes to their veins and pumping them full of drugs, he wouldn't let himself be a hypocrite.
Dabi wouldn't call himself a heavy user, more or less taking Cocaine as a quick pick-me-up whenever any ambient noise suited itself to irritating every nerve in his body, yadda yadda, other mental health issues he spat on and quashed every other day. It just happened to be one of his least favorite solutions to the issue at hand, a mixture of soothing iciness and subtle flames making its way into his mind, his supposed twin clamoring on about his health and how he couldn't leave himself this way before fracturing and leaving nothing of note behind in its place.
Hell, he didn't even know the hack that owned the club in the first place, even if the dude had set up a group of frightened, yet professional employees to welcome him into "their humble family." 'Whatever the hell that meant,' ran through his racing head, reaching his hand up to hold his head in place from the hyperstimulation that was beginning to settle in. Once he had thrust his wad of bills towards the blonde lackey of the owner, she hadn't even counted all of the green bills before he had started to already open the baggie and construct neat lines to snort.
With the swift inhalation of the snow racing its way into his bloodstream to disperse like a cackle of meth heads doing acrobatics in the night, intense euphoria begin to hit him in waves, crawling over the entirety of his brain as if it were a white veil giving way to feelings he had forgotten he could even experience.
Long fingers shook slightly from the viewpoint of his dilated pupils, cyan blue irises suddenly giving into the absorption of the coke: surroundings feeling as if they were blasted into his senses from millimeters away, the drift of a passing waitress holding whiskeys in her hands, how the conversation between the couple a few stools away from him was delving into near lovesick territory given the place they were in, and the swinging legs that were making their way into the back room were belonging to that vigilante you had surely known from now two months back.
The scarred man's temperature rose to unfathomable heights at the thought, throwing his slick metal chair off to the side before settling it harshly in place with a rough nudge of his Louis Vuitton's, snatching his cheap sunglasses off the counter and stuffing his nearly empty plastic bag into his black jeans. Every nerve of his was on fire, concentration gradually building with each step towards the direction you had headed off to and he swore he could smell wisteria nearby, even through the conglomeration of the partygoers pheromones, perfumes, and colognes filling the air.
"I don't remember there being somethin' coming so soon, but hey, I'll take whatever I can get!" heartily clapped into the air, said voice belonging to an unexpected face attached to the role he plays within the scenario.
Hirohito turned out to be the younger looking owner of the place, the entirety of his persona actually being rather heartfelt for someone who was enough of a dolt to have their government established name be their calling card within the criminal underground. Surrounding his rather casually dressed civilian outfit, that had a conventional tracksuit jacket tied around his waist and indigo-purple striped flannel on his chest, were dozens of folders differing in sizes and colors of the rainbow sandwiching him into the plush velvet cushions of his sophisticated futon couch. Accumulating within your mind with the dozens of anecdotes you had already collected throughout your brief run through the premises was suspicion, some intel that had been graciously sent to you by a blackmailed perpetrator not slotting into place with the deets.
You had plopped yourself exuberantly onto a surprisingly comfortable armchair with energy god knows you haven't had for years, setting the now crinkled cartoon bookbag bedazzled with rows of glitter beaming alongside it in a miniature disco light show to lean on your side. "About that, it turns out we had a little extra in our warehouses and we'll be sending 'em over right about now," you tittered facetiously, clapping your hands together in a small show of delight, adjusting your posture to be in line with the persona you had undertaken.
A tilt of your head and you innocently peered out from under your eyelashes towards the brash young adult, flippantly rolling a tuft of hair attached to the rather high quality wig secured onto your being, "'Less that's something ya could really do without today, what with all the hungry dogs in blue sniffing around, just give me the word."
To your satisfaction, the other had quickly risen his arms as if he was pushing an unseen boulder away from his being in terror, hastily bringing any doubts to rest that had been lingering in the near distance, far and fleeting away from the entirety of your consciousness. "No, no, that's all fine in my book, just as long as there isn't much...attention brought about our customers."
Confirmation seeding itself greedily into the floor of the building, roots spread far and wide to wrestle themselves into the tiniest crevices of any care you had, The Cask of Amontillado flashing into your mind; this disservice of a human seemed to have no bloom of remorse located in his soul, wine caskets and stone walls acting as the building blocks of a bloody grave filled with desolation and cruelty, a line running from one of your ears to the next declaring punishment without impunity. At that your non-dominant hand snickered in disbelief, worming its way into the vicinity of your childish backpack, clutching onto your weapon of choice and snapping it on as your prized accessory snugly fit onto the grooves of your knuckles, detached temporarily from your protective gloves. You lifted your leg to rest onto your opposite knee, a smile fixed in place that was steadily becoming more of a grimace by the second, an oh, is that so being recited.
"I guess you won't mind this, won't 'cha?" rose into levels of contention accompanied by contempt, an inexplicably smooth motion of kicking off from your pedestal made of silk and swinging into prime form, spiked brass knuckles slamming into Fuse's jaw and undoubtedly knocking some teeth out in a home run of fury. Blood spurted out in a crimson ooze from a small crevice of his slightly agape lips, stammering in shock with the beginnings of a juvenile connect the dots game coming into play within his mind, body finally catching up to his mind and scrambling to lean against the farthest arm of the futon for support.
"You waltz up in here, acting like this... I don't think you know who I am and exactly what I do," Fuse strangles out of his throat, sleeve coming up to wipe away fruitlessly at the splash damage you had inflicted.
"Oh, on the contrary Mr. Floozy Fuckface, you got no dice!" you struck out in a feint towards his figure at the other end of the tasteless furniture, drawing an entire line into the lining of the black cushions and smashing a direct hit into his ankles with the help of your powerful legs. What you didn't expect, however, is for the goddamn pricey seat to have literal pounds of white particles rushing out into the open, flooding both of your senses with an intensity that you had yet to experience ever in your life. Judging by the way your brain was booting itself into a maelstrom of inexplicable power, energy, and rapid fire thoughts that set your joints ablaze with an intensity you would compare to rubbing layers of Bengay paste onto your eyeballs to wreck your senses, this was most definitely angel dust.
"You're joking. COCAINE," you yelled to splice some distance between your voice and the dust that had still yet to settle. "Out of ALL the places you could've hid it, preferably your ass, you shoved it into the couch? Come on," and somehow the calling of your voice must have some sort of tune to speak to fellow crackheads, as Dabi strolled feverishly into the room and staggered to a halt when the idiocy of the situation hit him.
"Looks like I wasn't just imagining the bugs crawling on my skin after all, when the hell did you get here, shortie?" he lamely said with his signature drawl, flapping one of his hands in an attempt to waft away the small clouds of pure white drugs that floated happily in the air with no respect towards any person in the room. Exasperation draped over your darkened glare, darting your immediate displeasure to the punk male, ensuring your fingers came to cinch the bridge of your nose.
"Gee, I dunno, maybe when my father loved someone very much, y'see, they do a special hug-" you were instantaneously interrupted by the charging of footmen battering the previously pristine walls with bullets from a gun quirk of the lot, rolling and taking cover behind the outrageously tacky triangle table, dragging the patchwork man behind the sofa.
Lizard scales glared viridian in the now slanted, shoddy light fixture thanks to the smoking bullets that crushed into its base, a grunt sounding off in the near distance before the lifeline you had placed the pierced man was unceremoniously flung into the roof, creating a hearty dent that rattled the room's upper infrastructure, cracked off pieces of the wall plaster dropping like flies onto your uninvited companion's most certainly untreated burns. A raise of an eyebrow later, a gigantic burst of flames crackled into existence, flaying off a clumsy reptilian arm that had failed to leave its trajectory, the stench of burnt flesh and cauterized wounds stinging your nose while he continued on as if it was a day-to-day occurrence in his life... which wasn't entirely inaccurate.
"So, you mind continuing what you were saying, hero?" he goaded disrespectfully as much as a fire user could do while hosting a murderous campfire of his own within the room, shooting long tendrils from his equally gangly, scarred mulberry arms. With a scoff, you brushed off as many cocaine clumps that gathered onto your backpack, whipping out a canister of dubious legality, pulling out the genuine metal pin with a little elbow grease and locked eyes with a newcomer that was surrounded with the overpowering scent of floral fragrance.
"Hero, huh? As far as I'm concerned, you lot are going straight to the slammer," the voice seemingly commanding all of the scaled grunt's attributes to excruciatingly be ripped off into the air and levitate towards the mere direction of the well-built stranger, any incoming bullets slobbering at the chance to pierce through muscle and painfully clock into a calcium structure being arranged in a flowing halo above his head, torturous cries coming from one of Fuse's men that had a semi-automatic rifle for an arm.