It has been raining for two days.
Waterdrops steadily hit the brothel's dusty windows, filling the rooms and hallways with a constant tapping sound that swelled and decreased over the course of the days but never fully stopped. The streets outside are muddy, the sidewalks littered with puddles. Barely anyone dares to step outside and face the downpour, leaving the neighbourhood desolate.
The flickering streetlights illuminate the brothel's dark children's bedroom from the outside, shining their weak light into the freezing space and wrapping it in long trembling shadows.
Droplet after droplet patters onto the glass of the window, all identical in form and size; utterly indistinguishable. Madara trails one's path with half-lidded, unfocused eyes.
Two minutes and forty-one seconds until it reaches the lower window frame. That's twenty-two seconds slower than the last one.
Listlessly, he drags his gaze upwards again. There he finds just as many raindrops as he did two minutes and forty-one seconds ago. Not a single one stands out; there never does, they are all the same. Madara picks one anyway.
Two minutes and thirty-three seconds later, the droplet vanishes from his sight like the last one did, and the one before that. No matter, he finds another one that looks equally as dull.
Two minutes and forty seconds, and it's gone. A new one replaces it.
Two minutes and forty-two seconds. The endless cycle begins anew.
Madara wants it to stop; he wants the everlasting rain to end and the damp glass to dry. He wants the last meaningless raindrop to perish in soaked earth and sink deep enough to never rise into that presumptuous sky again, for it will only fall and shatter on the ground along with its siblings and cousins, drowned in a sea of corpses and washed up on another barren shore. Madara wants it to stop. He had thought it had.
A hollow ache spreads in his knees as he counts and counts, huddled up on the windowsill. It doesn't matter; his mind is numb, drifting aimlessly as the world continues to spin on without him.
Why? Why him?
No one answers him. Madara sighs, letting his temple hit the ice-cold glass. A shiver runs down his spine, and he releases a shaky breath, watching as it fogs the window.
With every minute that passes, a little more of his body heat gets sapped out of him until his bony limbs are shivering and shaking.
The room is barely insulated, and the oncoming winter is already digging its claws in deep, and the constant draft haunting the entire building only makes it more unbearable. Madara should get himself a blanket, or head to the kitchen downstairs and warm himself up; he knows that children are prone to sickness, he simply doesn't care enough to act on his knowledge.
The wooden door bangs open. It hits the wall with enough force that crumbs of old plaster loosen and flutter to the floor.
Madara barely shifts his eyes to acknowledge the intruders as they stalk in. It's always the same game anyway. Always the same, again and again and again.
"There's the quirkless freak! Did you think you could hide from us, monkey?" The first child jeers, and the others immediately burst into hollering laughter.
The words hardly register at this point; he's heard them all already, in every variation. It's mind-numbingly vapid babbling. Madara thinks he is supposed to feel boredom in this situation; he tries to drag the emotion up, tries to remember how the dull annoyance of it feels, the listlessness of an understimulated brain. It's no use; there is but a bottomless void in his chest. He feels nothing.
"Oi, stupid monkey! Look at him when he's talking to you!"
"Don't bother. He is too dumb to understand words." Another round of mocking laughter.
"Hey, hey, do you guys think we'll get another monkey-freak, now that Yua's pregnant again?"
Yua? Who is Yua? Madara can't remember the name.
"Maybe the freak's sibling will be lucky enough to get a quirk."
"I bet not! I heard it's contagious."
"What?! Ewww! Why didn't you say so?!"
"Run, or we'll turn into monkeys too!"
Irritated screaming, amused giggling. Feet stomp heavily over the worn floor, the door bangs shut, and it's quiet again.
Madara's fogged mind is slow to process the conversation. He blinks lethargically. Sibling? Ah, right, his mother's name is Yua, isn't it? And she is pregnant again? The owner - was it Takada? - will be furious. Another kid for him to feed, another futon to be bought and laid out in the children's room.
This too is always the same. Why Takada throws a tantrum every single time a woman gets pregnant is beyond Madara. What did the man expect, running a highly illegal brothel in some backyard alley? The women are often drunk or drugged when they sleep with a client, of course the adulterated birth control pills Takada buys for cheap on the black market will fail. Not to mention the non-existent medical infrastructure in this part of town. Pregnancies and unwanted children are unavoidable in these circumstances. Making a fuss about it every single time, when he is the one causing the issue by not providing access to medication and doctors, is simply moronic. He doesn't even care for the children in any form, and they are no burden to his overflowing pockets. If anything, he gains an unpaid workforce that he can command around at will, and most often does so without any reservations.
That reminds him, he has been told to pick up some things from the store before it closes.
Madara's stiff joints protest at the sudden movement, but he doesn't pay it any attention and jumps down from the sill. He doesn't bother with a jacket either; his have long been given away, to someone who needs them more, apparently. Instead, he grabs an umbrella and slinks out of the building unseen.
He is aware of why he is being sent to the store on foot in heavy rain when someone could drive there just as well. The adults never outright say it, at least not in his presence, but they see him as a second-class human at best and as an animal at worst. They enjoy inflicting little cruelties on him since with him, they are freed from feeling guilty about it. Junichi is barely a person; it doesn't matter if he is being stripped of any human dignity.
Like so often, there is a power imbalance at play. Helpless, weak Junichi is at the rock bottom of society, everyone else stands above him, no matter how pathetic they are. Quirklessness forces one beneath everyone else by default, meaning everyone is in a position of power around Junichi, and humans bask in the feeling of superiority. By pushing him down, they create the illusion of being lifted up from their miserable standing in society.
Everyone can feel powerful by pushing fragile little Junichi around, and no one has to worry about ethics or morals since those only apply to humans.
Madara knows he is being used to fulfill others' power fantasies; however, he simply doesn't care.
A biting cold climbs up his legs as soon as he steps out of the fleeting warmth of the brothel. His ragged shoes are soggy after a mere few steps on the sidewalk, and the small umbrella does a poor job of stopping the downpour from drenching him.
Yet, it doesn't hinder Madara in the slightest as he wanders through familiar grimy alleys.
"Oi, kid. What are you doing all alone in the rain?" A sleazy voice asks from the shadows beside him.
Madara doesn't deign him with a response and simply walks on.
"Where are your parents? Don't you know it's dangerous for little kids to be alone outside?" A hand grabs his shoulder, and Madara freezes on the spot. "How about you come with me? We could have some fun-"
"I will give you exactly three seconds to release me." His voice is too squeaky to carry the implied threat properly; he sounds more like a petulant child.
"Oh? You are a feisty one alright." The man roughly turns him around. His face is as ugly as his voice. "And pretty too. Look at those red eyes-"
The piece of human scum convulses; his dirty hand limply slips off Madara's shoulder. He takes a silent step to the side as the man falls face first to the floor with a wet splash and a crack that suggests a broken nose. Not that it matters; dead men don't breathe.
A tired sigh.
Why him?
Madara turns and continues his walk to the store, numb to the world around him.
.
.
"His name is Ren. You will take care of him," Yua says, unbothered to leave a baby in the hands of a five-year-old.
Madara glances down at the bundle in his arms.
Ren is quiet, doesn't even squirm. He doesn't know yet that his mother just abandoned him, that his father will never care, that he has been given a harsh lot in life simply by being Madara's brother.
As he looks at the baby, he can't help but notice the pale skin and the tuft of black hair on his head. No pointy ears. No scales like his father supposedly had. And Madara can't help but wonder.