@rcging-muscle is getting a job proposal
“ Remote village destroyed by a rampaging villain. ”
The story was making its turns on every single news reports that day. The photos that accompany it are gruesome — the streets reduced to rubble amidst blood-red mud, all that once stood reduced to nothing.
All Might studies it, deeply interested. The work is shoddy, truth be told — an animal’s rampage rather than anything with actual purpose, more of something he would be more keen into tallying how many heroes would fall to the beast before it was subdued, but he sees an opportunity there. In the same step Gigantomachia is no more than a bloodhound, whatever levelled an entire village overnight could be of service their greater machinations.
He doesn’t inform anyone of his whereabouts as he leaves, bound to the rubble of the village. It’s as good a place as any to start the search for the person responsible.
One wouldn’t have to look far to locate the perpetrator. While most would flee the scene of the crime and go into hiding, Kenta was a special case—an artist keen on admiring his own work. Small-scale cases of violence and destruction of property all lead up to this; the demolition of a quaint village that considered itself safe. The inhabitants could have never predicted the unprovoked wrath incurred by havoc embodied.
Few buildings were spared the same fate as others amid the olde worlde wasteland, effigies that would succumb to rapacious flames that grew by the minute, fueled by unbridled hunger. It’s in the shambles of a bar that he rides the hybrid of adrenaline and shock; all heightened senses and ragged breathing, a sheen of sweat clinging to the intricacies of muscle. An acute response to a successful rampage and losing a goddamned eye.
Underestimating the pro hero duo Water Hose was his only regret. Who knew a high-pressure jet of water could tear through flesh like a scalding knife? He knew now. Now that the left said of his face was a tattered score of raw skin, carved through with from lip to temple. What remained of a burst eye clung to his cheek, bound only by the optic nerve and tackiness of blood. Perhaps that’s why he found it difficult to focus on the bar-top tv— his own face aired on national news.
Only when he hears the disturbance of rubble in the near distance does his sight sharpen, fixed on an approaching figure as he steps outside into the bleak. Who the hell was he? And why the hell was he ruining his moment?
“Where the hell did you come from? No way I missed a guy like you. Unless... you’re here to take me out—”
turnnoffyourmind
baratheonpilled
areudirty
romaincrisis
snowghoul
