In the nanoseconds that proceeded, one could say the newcomer's presence emanated a presence that consequently drew every single person's nerves taut, as if they had gleefully chipped in some handiwork of ripping intestines out through their mere existence. You could say that it was the very antithesis of ubiquity, yet eyeing down this mishmash of predatory nature concealing his burly figure with a retro themed, dark burgundy jumpsuit you would expect an old-school mechanic to prance around in, stifled cackles rose out of your traitorous throat. It's as if a metrosexual stereotype made a terribly clashing baby with someone who lived, breathed, and slept with exercise coating their muscles with sweat, a gnarly ass giant that had no clue on how to mesh any sort of style presented to them, giving up and throwing the towel before eyeing a disastrous mannequin assemblage and looking no further.
Apparently the white haired man's priorities were set onto disastrously trashing any sort of spotless area within Fuse's backstage hangout, as he pointedly ignored your snarky nonsense in favor of pummeling a mostly likely underpaid grunt, his cries akin to the thrashing of a plump child rocking their cradle, you didn't blame him. Watching just the mere action of the unknown man's quirk continually ripping apart any evergreen, lustrous scales being regenerated by his body was sickening, the squelching ripping sounding off into the overall ruckus of the scene, screaming pink flesh being separated from their proper place in weakening, bloody tethers.
The other lackey of the man of the hour had not fared as well as his partner either, bullets from his arms galloping out of the vesicles of veins seemingly at random, reconstruction rates betraying his lowly and weeping pain tolerance being used against him, ammo being reduced to spitting out of his bloodstream in rapid-fire movements like maggots would if squeezed out from external pressure.
To say the least, shit was going down and thankfully not towards the two of you acting like bootleg ragdolls; spurts of white-hot flames petering out to rest on the qui vive, callused pale palms allowing them to stand guard while his fleshy mind computer stalled in comprehending what was unrolling before both of your eyes.
Hesitation bled out of your body to make way for your fingers to grip your unlabelled canister and make haste to chuck it over towards the looming figure in the near distance, rashly diving to take cover and for Dabi to duck as well, motioning for him propel air into his lungs before your practical riot control agent set in spontaneously. It was one of your greatest feats as of yet, containing the abbreviated United Kingdom's PAVA spray in a canister in which it could burst free from its DIY enclosure, yet illegally containing juiced up percentages of its namesake and synthetic capsaicin within its container.
It didn't help that you hadn't the time to freely illuminate your gothic ally on how this mixture was not, in fact, flammable and he could wreak havoc as much as he giddily wished on the room's inhabitants.
Nearly all at once did total calamity strike, dirtily slamming itself into the presumed underground hero's scarred forehead that was no stranger to what you had set loose, blistering pain set into the ignorantly slow guards joining Hirohito in waterfalls of tears bulging out of their searing eyes, shortened breaths straggling as much as an out of shape asthmatic choking their already stressed lungs into oblivion.
Surely they noticed by now through their nails grasping at the floorboards in agony that it was very effective, even more so to the point that it had upped the lethality of the blend due to the cocktail of alcohol and sweet cocaine within their systems, you and your partner in crime at the moment shielding your faces in a blind race to the exit of the premises, lest your secret weapon backfire and ultimately incapacitate the two of you.
Raucous chortles breathed out in tandem with the hearty weight of strain pressing down upon them, the man's broad frame clapping slowly before gripping a white bottle in his tool belt. Running chaotically down his face was the niche antidote to your presented trade, milk white fluid flowing and dampening locks that seemingly blended with the settled colloid.
A sort of dangerously malicious look usurped his facial expression, one of his golden canines coming into view alongside the dispersed particles floating around the room, "Don't think you'll get rid of me that easily, eh?"
Clicking his tongue, he made no room for any second thoughts as he started off in a mad dash towards the direction your figures blindly headed, wrapping a freakishly gory wreath of scaly flesh around the grovelling reptile man and delicately marched the halo of high caliber bullets around the respective quirk user, his gunmetal arm shivering in tandem with his body. With both of your eyes blinded and temporarily shielded from the blast of highly illegal chemicals, two sets of legs veered and slid squeakily against the friction from tiles, stumbling towards the backdoor entrance usually available to Fuse's hired men.
Thunderous bullets began to whip into the corner of the hallway, telltale bloodcurdling screams being the monstrous entourage of this merciless man, who had expertly began using the downed criminals quirks as their main projectile infantry.
Dodges leapt out of your very muscle memory, ingrained to the bone even when all was left were the not-so subtle cues of whistling roaring towards your direction, managing to get the low caliber bullets to only graze an arm or two, misdirecting to the best of your ability the ones that did manage to nearly clip Dabi in his torso with tactile hits from hard steel ingrained within your spiked knuckles. Unfortunately, this virtuous sacrifice led to your precious brass knuckle's attachments to falter and the hardened steel being able to withstand the redirection, but not without heavy cracks surfacing upon it, some gleaming pieces sadly already bouncing into debris on the ground.
With one final shove towards the hinges of the rusting door, the fire-user grabbed you from the back of your shirt to aid in the process of your messy exit, shoving your torso out of the way from another waves of speeding gold blobs from entrenching themselves within your most vital organs, two at least making your exposed lower calf shudder in horror silently.
Skittering painfully across the notably marked concrete ground, it graciously gifted you with delightful road rash, with unexpected rocky pests clinging onto some of your skewed limbs adding to the injuries you had already gained.
Straining your head to glance at your temporary comrade in arms against this quite possibly insane underground hero, he was doing no less better than you were currently, gasps corrupting any stable airways he had left thanks to the consequences of your incapacitation gas colliding with the snow already in his system.
Before either of you could defend yourselves against the relentless onslaught caused by such a petty criminal's arrest, constellations forcibly formed into your sight, blinding lights grinding tumultuous wails in the vicinity, sporadic neon colors flashing towards your retinas even though you were sure you had closed your eyes.
The first thing Daisuke Fujiwara had set out to accomplish this evening was the undetectable infiltration of the establishment, posing as the stubborn bouncer with darling brown dreads traipsing down towards his shoulders on the back of his head, normally tan and noticeably darker skin tone being subdued into an even more intense shade of brown. A friendly walk down the road with a former villain that was straying from her rehabilitation parole and he was slipped into disguise for the occasion, acting in character for the security he was to effortlessly imitate in order to maintain his eyes on the prize.
He had always maintained his gardening complex near the beginning of Hanahaki street, keeping any new zygotes attempting to stir up any pots in the healing neighborhood in check, with his embroidered flowery apron or not. The moment he had noticed this uncanny figure dance casually to the place's doors had him reeling his cloaked caramel eyes into any signs denoting a new minion, surprising his inner self when he instantly recognized the most tidy act of deception he had seen since working with the likes of Eraserhead, your act encapsulating an airheaded supplier with enough self-respect to dig into Hirohito and not giddily lick his behind.
Trailing behind your figure in the manner of a passing employee with dwindling patience and will to live, he had slowly peeled the electromagnetic film sticking onto his form, a receptive illusion-based power that allowed him to shrug it off at will, crackling medium-length braids disappearing into nothingness as his shaven undercut takes its place. Pristine blank hair was accompanied by assertive almond eyes that swayed to and fro with his every move, pocketed hands digging into spacious geranium pockets to only clutch at his sheathed hunting knife.
As soon as his gaze caught onto a speed walking scarecrow patterned with silver stitches and purple markings, he had known his operation included unforeseen variables that could range from murderous backup all the way to genuinely good meaning detective work from someone in the police force.
What he hadn't expected was for the air to arch tantamount to parted seas violently settling in ripples beside the pathway set in stone, or in this case, practically shifting the reality surrounding their accomplice-slash-arsonist and Fujiwara being no exception to the bending of the scenery. All he had done was fire up his trusty quirk and tug at the supposed supplier's quirk factor, at which a switch in his mind had been flipped and his entire being languished at the scant action, the black haired murderer's palms alighting yet failing when his ally had fallen.
It was as if the person's inner core sapped at his own once he had enacted his superpower, even though there was no metaphorical hook in sight, biologically, nowhere where he could drop his anchor and become the meister of their own abilities.
'Don't tell me...' echoed into his head before he could hang onto any semblance of the current terrain, as if their very presence lingered and thrust upon them their otherworldly corporeal form.
Stomach lining wept at the state of its entrails, injuries burning as much as the bolstering red heat stepping confidently towards his fallen body, it had been far too long in which he had felt his intestinal acid swelter within the throes of his taste buds.
"Touya. Don't even think about giving up, it is not an option," was roared out by one man's voice he thought he would never hear in person again. Scratch that, it was far too gratifying to even grace the beast with a status that would denote he had the choice of free thought, considering how much he used it in moral terms.
It was a dead name, a small cinder that had been wiped out the moment he had lost control in one of the most nightmarish moments of his life, boiling fair peach skin tainting itself into mauve, bubbling burnt flesh at the hands of virtual instinct. Once he rose his cyan irises enveloped by accents of howling yellows, mandarins, and crimsons that flickered violently, he knew it was the past.
His hands gripped the foam-like consistency of the training mat his sperm donor had insistently installed for the greater good, and the supposed regimen that was to take place behind traditional shoji dividers, also being coated in flame retardants. Dabi swore he could feel the acid reflux that was never meant to be in the present rise up, gagging slightly when the disgusting taste of vomit plagued his mouth. It wasn't the first time this had happened due to his parental figure's own will, but it surely was the worst night of his life.
"I'm guessing that's also what you told mom when you beat her into submission, probably raped her to make even more of us, yeah? Probably's an understa-" the taste of iron flooded his senses, his jaw screeching as if it were a wild animal cornered with nothing but fight or flight being its company, making his head drop once more to the floor.
You couldn't feel anything anymore, it was all numbed to the point you swore your body deemed itself to be capable of taking a syringe to your own neck and putting you under anesthesia. Whatever you had been birthed with in that infernal hospital room, it inflicted nothing but pain around you, including yourself. Ignoring its incessant existence was a breeze as long as you didn't allow your hands to lose control of the reins controlling it, acting as if it never inflicted mental gashes within your psyche was all swell and simple enough. Yet, there is always the contrary facing your embittered expression when you least expect it, flashes of bolts ringing out of its restrained cage striking out well into the realm of possibility, of something you could never ignore. Don't you think it's time to finally come to terms?