@cruelinfluence
“ a problem for whom? that’s not what i meant by shake the tables. stop thinking so damn small, dabi. ” he grumbles, over the crackling black skins belonging to four officers. it’s not their blue-lit carcasses that has him agitated. no, shigaraki figured this was already scripted in their fate, regardless. he currently had no use for pocketing corrupt pigs. it was dabi’s half-assed attempts at being a team-player. the scarecrow does pretty much what the scarecrows always do: grate the nerves for emotional tensions. less differentiated people are annoyingly difficult to move about in his chess game with the world. he understands he has to be patient about these things. foreseeing the endgame is what gets him through the stresses of his animated peers. he sighs, his voice deadpan as he tells his commander, “ do something with the frying bacon already before more of ‘em come. ” the honest meaning of moths to a flame. “ or worse. ”
he’s no more than a chemical reaction each time he uses his powers — the scorched flesh an outcome of genetic instabilities because ice and fire fights inside of him. when he burns others. he burns himself. and he thinks there’s some type of cosmic joke to be found there. but he’s not laughing. it’s been a long-time since anything ever surprised him. maybe it’s his own arrogance speaking and the way he sees into people and label them before they even speak. surviving on the streets required that kind of knowledge. one needed to know their enemies before they became enemies if you expected to live.
shigaraki is more than the outline of a petulant man-child he once were now. he’s long since escaped the shackles of his past and dabi doesn’t have to like him to acknowledge that feat. he cannot do the same. the bodies crackle as flame collided with air. he’s right. some mediocre set of low-leveled heroes will be here soon to investigate and then bring in others once they realize they’ll be punching above their paygrade. he chuckles, shoulders slumped and lips pulled into a grin so restless it appears as if it could slip right off his face. ‘ do i look like the damn maid. get somebody else to do it! ’ but he increases the flames he expels until bones and skin melt way to ash. down to its basic elements. he feels the persistent burning underneath his own skin from the manipulation, but the bodies begin to crumble. a piece of fabric, a femur bone behind. ‘ i ain’t sweeping that shit up. ’
