Chapter Text
A metronomic hum was the only abruption to the sun’s raise that morning. A constant within the air far more stiff than sane, recycled and reused time and time again. There’s something roaming in said air, something between citrus and metal, a mask of sanitizer that masked pain. Rays of light highlighted the pitiful petals that were sat upon the plastic bedside table; Wordless blessings meant to bring life to the stale environment where sterile halls moan in their own misery.
Something to the right was beeping. Was it a tune, a melody, a siren’s song? No, buzzing ears could hardly latch onto it past the distant drone of voices past some distant door, or the soft-soled choreography of footsteps that come and go. All that could be heard, all that could be focused on, was that insistent tempo that pierced through fickle dreams, one after another.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Scar woke that morning, or perhaps a few mornings ago, to a familiar alarm ring, although that bright sun had yet to rise in the sky. The darkness of the hour however didn’t waver his ability to begin the day, just like the many days prior. Scar left no time to appreciate the warmth of his bed, pushing himself upwards. He was left standing in the cold air of a small apartment, quiet and empty, but nevertheless his.
The clockwork repetition of each morning in any other circumstance would have driven Scar mad, but this rhythm was drilled into his bones at this point. Up at 4:30 and out the door by 5:30. Choose the protein rich breakfast, choose the warmup, choose the cold shower that saves money, because every droplet could be another payment down the drain. Yet every day still felt like the first. Even as the freezing water hit his back and caused his shoulders to shiver, the anticipation of the day ahead brought a golden glow of warmth to his chest.
A letter sat upon the pale, chipped coffee table. A token of appreciation waiting to join the small, but growing, collection. Gifts, drawings, carefully thought out words. While the apartment remained so sparsely decorated, each piece of parchment and trinket eventually found its place on a wall or shelf.
It had been almost a year since Scar received his first piece of recognition, of thanks. A year since graduation from the hero course and his debut, commemorated by charcoal on paper.
By the time the sun had begun to rise, Hot Guy – in his almost still shiny hero costume – stood leant against a lamp post, his patience clearly waning from the mindless scroll he subjected his phone to. This wait wasn’t particularly uncommon, but that fact didn’t stop the way Scar obnoxiously tapped his foot against the ground. Only the faint flap of feathers drew his attention away from the screen, moving to the origin of the sound. Scar squinted through the light of the post that had yet to dim, catching a glimpse of bright wings and dark eyes that stared down. “You’re late,” the figure spoke, making Scar scoff in disbelief.
“I’ve been here for so long, you’re the one that’s late!”
The hero stepped away from the beam of the light, walking further across the pavement so he could properly look at the sidekick perched atop the post.
“Oh, pssh! I just wanted to see how long it would take for you to spot me! I’ve been here the whole time!” The sidekick bickered. Though Scar still couldn’t quite make out his face, the tone of his voice made him sure the other was grinning widely, in a way that firmly crowned itself in his memory.
Scar replied with nothing more than an eyeroll, tucking his phone into a secure pocket on his belt before folding his arms together, waiting for the other to meet him on the ground. Poultrygeist, as he was known to the public and the hero industry, raised his wings and glided down gracefully, landing in front of the hero he shadowed.
“So you were watching me like a creep?” Scar questioned in amusement.
“Nooo, it's not creepy, if- consider… consider, it's funny!” Grian, as he was known to Scar, replied with a similar trickle of amusement in the bouncing vowels.
Even in the darkness of the dawn Scar would note how brightly the red, yellow and green of Grian’s feathers stood out, poking through strands of hair, framing his shoulders, contrasting his otherwise dark hero costume; A bold, crimson halo against the sky. They had been designed to match, although nothing about the two’s hero aesthetics or motifs connected them as a duo in any way. Nevertheless, they were known as a team that held the promise of justice in their palms. Even if their names were only just beginning to rise.
“So,” Grian began, tilting his head at Scar, “What’s the plan today, usual patrols? Following up on anything?”
His question prompted Scar to reach yet again into another one of his pockets, producing a small notebook and pen that he began to rapidly flip through the pages of. After he did a do-over with his eyes of the content he left himself on a page of his most recent hastily scribbled notes. As Scar spoke, he began to walk, not consciously, and not towards anywhere in particular.
“Well there was that drug bust a few weeks ago, you know the one in the shopping district?”
Grian followed along, attempting to get a glimpse of the notebook after catching up to his friend’s sudden stride.
“Yeah, the quirk enhancers,” he chimed in.
“Right! Well, Vex Corp’s been encouraging everyone to patrol extra around the shopping district, but that leaves sooo much of the city with way less surveillance. It’s like survivorship bias.”
“Survivorship bias?”
“You know- the thing with the planes.”
Based on the way his face scrunched when he glanced at Scar, the hero guessed Grian had no idea what he was talking about. Or perhaps it was a ruse to get the other to talk, it’s… hard to know with Grian sometimes.
He abruptly stopped and clicked his pen, taking a new page of his notebook to scribble down a doodle to explain his point. What resulted was a blob that might have resembled a plane if you squinted, flimsy little “c’s” drawn in what certainly had to be wings.
“Back in… the past, they’d send planes to war and reinforce the ones that came back where all the bullet holes were,” Scar began, tapping the edge of his pen onto the scribble he had just made. He had shifted in his feet, just so that Grian could peer over his shoulder to see what he was doing for this explanation.
“But really they should have been reinforcing everywhere there wasn’t a bullet hole, because it meant the planes shot there were the ones that didn't make it back,” He continued, dotting the paper with several holes across what was meant to be the plane’s wings.
“The drugs are the planes, and Vex Corp. are the people making the planes and we’re the people that are smarter than the people that make the planes.”
Scar concluded with a satisfactory hum, only to look over at Grian, who gave him a blink and a slow nod in return. Grian had quickly dropped one of his hands which had clearly been miming the way Scar began to ramble on about these planes and wars. It’s a playful tease above all else.
“Nevermind,” Scar sighed while closing his notebook and tucking it back into his pocket. “My point is.” he clapped his hands together, “There's not enough attention on certain parts of the city right now. I think today we should focus on Aqua Town, it's a pretty safe area, but I feel like that’s all the more reason for villains to use it as a hideout.”
Grian seemed to try to come up with something that would battle Scar’s logic, a tease to add into his master plan, but he found that as his mouth fell open no words came. Either Scar was right, or the rest of their day would remain as peaceful as their morning, filled with chatter and soft birdsong with a lovely side of honking horns.
In terms of plans to impress Vex Corp, this was certainly one of the tamest Scar had come up with. It’s hard enough to get eyes onto the newer heroes, but it’s a wish and a dream for the top to notice someone like him. To be a part of their league, to be working directly under them would mean so much in his life- and Grian’s- would be easier. Working against the bigger baddies, being a face people would recognise as someone dependable to keep them safe. It’s like a dream all wrapped into one company’s name! Even the cats he finds would have better kibble, as Scar’s nearly certain he’d have the aid of Vex Corp to host an adoption centre for all the strays. A blissful dream, really.
A dream that’s being smacked out of him by Grian’s hand whacking the back of his head, something that’s become painfully familiar to Scar throughout the years he’s known the man.
“Scar,” Grian deadpanned, “You nearly just walked into that pole. Someone must’ve woken up on the right side of the bed today.” Sarcasm was leaking from his tone, implying that he knew exactly what sort of daydream was lingering behind Scar’s eyes.
“Oh.. my bad.” A weak chuff from Scar, a hand moving to slide briefly over his neck. This isn’t exactly the first time they’ve done this dance.
“Well we’re already in town, so get those peepers working!” Grian was quick to move on, a gentle nudge to the side of Scar’s hip before he pressed forwards into town.
The town in question? Aqua Town! A pleasant break from the electric buzz of a waking central Hermit City, with its neon, flashing attacks to the senses replaced by the gentle scent of sea salt that blew on the wind. While mostly home to those with a quirk related to water or sea, Aqua Town was also known as the wealthier of the Hermit City districts, housing many who could afford the privilege of a safe and well taken care of neighbourhood. For Scar, he found his appeal for the area in watching how Grian’s nose would scrunch when they passed by a fishmonger. It was the small things that made the whole much brighter.
Conversations drifted along the cobbled streets, only contested by the occasional hum of cars passing by. While Scar’s eyes scanned his surroundings with trained precision, he found his gaze falling to the sidekick next to him, snapping back to the task at hand when the other caught his stare. A smile seemed to nip at the corners of Grian’s mouth, a moment of recognition in how he had stolen Scar’ focus.
With the streets as calm as they both had predicted, the two opted for the high ground advantage. Although within an area so free of modern apartment blocks and office buildings, it took some time to find somewhere suitable for today’s lookout.
Grian was — as expected — the first to land upon the roof they chose; his bright scarlet macaw wings carrying him swiftly up. Scar meanwhile, was left around the side of the building staring up at an old fire escape ladder that creaked just from the weight of itself, tanned and jagged from rust; the first ladder was tucked far away from reach.
With a sharp inhale, he took a few steps back, shaking away any remaining stiffness from his arms. The jump to the first platform wasn’t particularly far, though as Scar’s fingers dug into the sharpened metal, he braced for the whole thing to collapse and send him crashing straight back to the ground. After a moment or two of waiting to see how the structure would react, he carried on, reaching one hand to the guard rail followed by the other. Finally he was able to vault over, choosing to pay little mind to the structure’s squeaking complaints, making the rest of his journey a simple, yet shaky, walk up to the top floor.
With every flight of stairs Scar looked over each banister to see Grian watching from above, where gentle wind ruffled the hair that cascaded against his face. He spotted an amused twinkle in those dark eyes, one that made it seem like the morning had allowed him to stargaze.
When the final climb of a ladder to the roof was completed, he was presented with an outstretched hand, far more a gesture of politeness than an offer of assistance.
Scar took it and hopped onto the concrete.
Grian had motioned Scar to join him near the rooftop’s edge, sitting down with a plop. Scar much obliged, shoulder to shoulder as they surveyed the world from above.
The building was jagged and rough, poking into Scar’s skin through cheap spandex. Any later in the day and the sun might have warmed the surface from which the two dangled their legs, though for now it held memories of the midnight’s chill. But discomfort was worth it for this view, of everything below and everything soon to be above. Even only a few stories up the world didn’t seem so big. Every civilian is another possible victim and criminal, yet up there Scar felt as if he could hold them safe within the palms of his hands.
Even a seat amongst the Vex Corp elite seemed within reach. Trust, respect, adorement, justice. It was all promised for just the small price of impressing the corporation at the centre of the industry.
“What now?” Grian’s voice prodded, yet again snapping Scar out of his self-righteous daydreaming. A hum escaped him, then a silence, a moment to think before he finally answered with an unenlightening “Oh!” A brief moment to remember that they were indeed on duty.
A tin of tuna was taken out from Scar’s pocket, no explanation given before he cracked it open. The silence that followed brought stillness to the air, thin, awkward, but still waiting for an understanding. Scar didn’t leave that awkwardness to rest, moving to place the tin on the wall beside him.
For longer, the silence continued, stretching until Scar found it necessary to hold one finger out as though silencing Grian, whose mouth had remained firmly closed. His eyes however were deceiving enough to roll.
A minute passed, then two. Scar’s finger remained stagnantly pointed to shush a silent man. Then finally, just as minute three was pushing into a show of humour rather than purpose, a black form joined them on the roof.
A cat. Quirkless, like most animals, and hesitant to approach like most felines.
A focus overcame Scar, his quirk triggering, intention and emotion shot like the precision of his arrows. A message that spoke of safety.
The feline returned its intentions, hunger, curiosity and a growing sense of trust. It approached, not pulled by any controlling force, but rather persuaded by Scar’s kind thoughts.
“Hello friend,” Scar greeted. Despite his kindness, before the cat could begin to eat from the tin, Scar tucked it back into his hand, earning a meow of displeasure. Anyone could easily tell the disapproval that traced those sharp eyes.
“I’ll make you a deal, okay? If you have a look around for anything suspicious and come back and let me know what you find, you can have some.”
The cat was less than thrilled about this arrangement, his tail thrashing in a way that even Grian could read as a tantrum, however the message Scar received was something he was able to interpret as a moody acceptance. After a final meow, the cat leapt back towards the fire escape it emerged from. Scar could only really hope it was going to actually fulfill the deal.
“Pfft-! Is it really a quirk if you have to bribe them to do what you want?”
Scar looked back to Grian, who in the time it took him to get feline assistance, had begun preening the large pin feathers at the bottom of his wings. Habitually, Scar scooted closer and ran his fingers through the harder to reach feathers at the back, murmuring, “I’d like to see you try to get a cat to do literally anything.”
Soon Grian had turned his back further towards Scar, swivelling his body and raising his wings only ever so slightly. It was a domestic chore that had become as natural to Scar as the shedding feathers were to Grian.
Between Scar’s fingers the keratin fell away in dust and flakes, replaced by the new golden fibers that now emerged, soft against skin.
After enough times of accidentally yanking at the wings Scar had developed his own gentle technique for the task. Now he held each pin feather with a care he saved for not even his own bow.
“And besides,” Scar continued, “I’d never want to force anything to do something it didn’t want to. I’m just very persuasive.”
“Better than wings I guess, I might as well be quirkless!”
“Grian, you can fly.”
“Yeah but… biologically. I was born with them, they might just be a genetic mutation and not a quirk manifestation."
“Well either way it’s awesome, I wish I could fly, or you could pick me up.”
“Say that when you are handed a twelve page booklet on flight laws.”
A laugh bubbled from Grian, hands uselessly falling to his lap. Scar’s hands wandered upwards, tracing through a maze of preening until they tangled in dirty blonde hair. There they found the smaller feathers that littered his pointed ears and continued with the pampering.
“I can get those myself, Scar,” Grian chirped, though his head leant further into the touch.
“I know.”
“So you can leave them alone.”
“I wanna help with these ones though! They’re so soft.” Scar’s fingers lingered a moment to pay far more attention to an open, fluffy feather that was in no need of preening.
Grian’s smile quickly turned bashful. “You can play wing salon when we’re not at work!” He moved to swat away Scar’s hands, finding in his sheepishness he reacted far more aggressively than intended. Nevertheless Scar laughed, almost giggled, and clasped his hands together like a school boy.
Despite the bickering, there was a sense of security wavering in the air. Given that they were waiting on their feline friend, chatter rang out between the two: the plans for after work, what area they should survey next in case the cat had nothing to share, guessing which car would turn at what light. Mundane things, highlighting the morning’s peace. It’s soft, and tender, and quite frankly? Scar wouldn’t trade the world for days like today. It’s oddly domestic, comforting as the rising sun’s rays.
A sense he had long come to know sparked in Scar’s mind, a zap of knowledge that their ally had returned to the rooftop. Paws padded towards the heroes with a previously unseen vigor, and while Scar could feel a sense of urgency, he also recognised the same hunger and a new excitement for the promised food. Standing, Scar turned to give the cat a smile and a wave, Grian following suit with a tuck of his hands into his pockets.
“Hello again,” hummed Scar as he took the tin of tuna back into his hand to stop any quick attempts at being bamboozled.
Of course, the cat was quick with his reports, rattling off his findings in a healthy mix of meows and telepathy until Scar understood.
The docks,
An unfamiliar boat that crept into a berth,
a funny smell and hushed voices.
The fragmented scene of starboard and decking painted itself into the hero’s mind, like he was interpreting words on a page.
Scar nearly jumped in his thrill the second he realised his cat based surveillance plan may have actually worked.
But he kept his promise, fully tearing away the metal lid and setting down the tin, then further giving his thanks in the form of a scratch between soft ears.
“There’s something weird with one of the boats… sounds like it might be those quirk enhancers if we’re lucky!” Scar stretched his arms above his head with fingers interlocked, “Better get there quickly.” The hero began his pace back to the fire escape before Grian’s voice stopped him abruptly.
“Scar, wait!”
He turned back to his sidekick, his expression twitching into something that resembled confusion and the expectation of worry. Though what met him instead of any similar concern was Grian’s own turn to stretch, a tight smile forming under the tension. Shoulders and wings took their time to roll out their stiffness, a deliberate tease at Scar’s ache to move.
The few deliberate seconds felt like far too long, but finally Grian’s wings raised, set to take flight.
“Race ya!”
Before Scar could so much as react Grian had thrown himself off the ledge, each flap of his wings carrying him towards the docks at a pace Scar knew he had no chance of keeping up with. Still, he grinned, every limb sparking alive with an adrenaline he couldn’t ignore. Suddenly it was far easier to ignore how the fire escape groaned under every thundering footstep.
Scar kept to the back alleys as he ran, his choice based purely on avoiding foot traffic and raising his chances of catching up. Even the direction he was going in fell to the back of his mind, losing any worry that he would get lost behind him as the rush of competition flooded over. Only when the cover of buildings became scarce and the vast harbour came into view did Scar come to a stumbling halt, backing up to recuperate and hide himself against the wall.
It was near impossible to find good cover with a view of the boats. Every building this close to the shore was a towering town house he had no chance of scaling, and every alley was too far from the docks. His best chance for a hiding place would be the very boats he was trying to watch, which quickly took them off the list of options. Just as Scar began to wonder where his partner with a particularly helpful ability was, a hand tapped his shoulder.
“Two minutes behind me, not bad to be honest.”
“Well, from the looks of it you’re the one behind me right now, so…” Scar replied, grin splitting his face as he turned to peer over at his sidekick.
“Yeah yeah, now what boat are we looking for? I might be able to get a quick look without being noticed.”
“I’m.. not entirely sure. I just know they’ve got a group of people transporting the cargo off. This is meant to be a fishing harbour, not a port, so it shouldn’t be hard to spot.”
“Got it.”
Again came the sound of wings against the air as Grian took off to find a better view. Meanwhile Scar poked his head around the corner of the wall, scanning the far off berths for any signs of something out of the ordinary.
Though there was no need to strain his eyes, he trusted Grian to find what they were looking for. With hollow bones and a high ground advantage, Poultrygeist was always the one in the pair best suited for stealth.
It didn’t take long before the rattling of an engine from the street ahead alerted Scar, followed by a familiar chirp of birdsong that reached his ears. A simple message that told him ‘follow.’
Scar watched as Grian moved between the gaps in the rooftops. The distant sound of wing flaps had muffled themselves, reduced to silent gliding. Even in the brightest sunlight Poultrygeist still managed to make himself so invisible to the world; Hot Guy could only hope he wasn’t noticed in turn.
Each turn, each corner, with only the glimpses of traffic light feathers to guide him there was no way to know which way was clear. Grian seemed to be leading him for miles, although perhaps it was only the caution and alert in Scar that made it feel that way. However long it was, they eventually entered an industrial area of Aqua Town, abandoning the pretty town houses and fishmongers for warehouses and factories that crumbled just from looking at them too hard.
Scar’s cover was only growing thinner as the tight knit buildings gradually fell behind. But finally — after Scar began to wonder if he would be following Grian endlessly — his sidekick stopped atop a factory. A factory with a convenient ladder that Scar was eternally grateful for.
The ridged skylights were grubby and worn, though Grian sat crouched where he could peer through. From above the forms of moving people inside could be made out, and when stood still at Grian’s side Scar found he could vaguely hear the sound of conversation. If it weren’t for the heavy rise and fall of his chest, and the hum of an engine around the other side of the building, Scar might have been able to understand a few words.
“I’m sorry for not slowing down, I was trying to track their van,” Grian spoke, his voice now true to his occupation rather than the toying cadence that had been held within it only minutes ago, so hushed that Scar had to join him in crouching, “They were loading it with crates and boxes which – if you asked me – looked far too heavy to just be fishing equipment. Awfully careful with it, too.”
Scar hummed an acknowledgement. A gradual excitement was bubbling in his heart, a feeling he’d been warned time and time again by heroes with greater experience than him was only a danger to himself. Excitement brought impulsiveness, and impulsiveness got people hurt. But still the anticipation of what could be happening within the old brick building grew with each second that ticked by. After today spray paint and cobwebs may not be the only thing to leave a mark on that place.
Finally Grian stopped squinting through the glass and looked to his partner. “Should we call it in?”
Scar hesitated with his answer. His mind told him ‘probably,’ so they probably should let someone know, just in case. But a further series of “what if’s” followed; What if this was nothing? What if they got reprimanded for wasting time? What if while others were coming to help them with something useless, someone somewhere else needed help?
“No,” he eventually determined, “Not yet. Let’s get a closer look first.”
As Scar expected the skylights showed no latch for opening. However, accessible from the ladder he had climbed was a window with enough weather damage to allow Scar’s hand to carefully slip through the broken glass to the handle. Each hinge creaked with Scar’s efforts to push at the glass, louder than Scar would have liked it to be, but thankfully drowned out by the clunking of boxes that was far more audible closer up.
The balcony platform inside was more forgiving to the weight of Scar’s steps, followed by Grian’s, not far behind. A small mercy when stealth was the ideal.
Lights lined the factory ceiling, although seemingly they were either off deliberately, or just not working, granting them the smallest amount of shadow to hide in. Unfortunately this did nothing to stop the sunlight that peeked its rays through the clouded glass panes. For once it seemed darkness would be the only thing to stop the feeling of unease that creeped its way up the heroes’ spines.
Scar peered down at the people below, the shapes of their white coats now free from the window’s grime, revealing stainless and clean cloth.
They looked almost professional, while barring the dingy working environment. Like swans in sewage. Scar considered for a moment that perhaps they were wrong.
That this was all a misunderstanding.
Who could really trust a cat to know what was and wasn’t suspicious?
Until something in particular caught his eye.
Bright yellow chalky bricks. A particular memory of how they were humorously described as ‘cheese blocks’ sparked to mind, followed by details of how users would crush them into a powder, melt it with a lighter and spoon, and inject the substance for the reward of heightened power lasting only thirty minutes. A brief memory, but enough to rely on when knowledge is dire.
That was enough for Scar. A confirmation that they were exactly where they needed to be, with a lead that didn’t take them astray.
“Quirk enhancers found. Backup needed.” He whispered with a finger pressed against his earpiece, a double click of the button sending his location to the other heroes in the area.
It was simple, and it was enough. He didn’t want to risk saying too much, uncertain of what sort of ears could be listening now that they were somewhere critical.
A look to Grian, a glance back, a nod. Without words it was enough to understand that they were staying; This was their moment, their opportunity to climb from the trenches and become what the industry promised; Something more than themselves. More than another face in the crowd of dozens, more than a name on a list. This was their chance.
Scar drew his bow alongside an arrow from his back, which he smoothly slotted into place. Grian’s baton was quietly extended, his hand gripped tight on the handle.
Their ambush had officially crawled to its kickoff.
From Scar’s shoulder to his finger tips, every inch of skin crackled with adrenaline as he drew back the bowstring to the side of his face, preparing the warning shot.
Only, before the bowstring could spring back and send his arrow flying, the sudden slam of a hastily opened door on the ground floor rang through the building.
“What is UP!” A voice shouted, where it seemed as though every set of eyes darted to find the source. There, emerging from said opened door, brought a thin man with his arms stretched out wide. He was pushing into the room with the arrogance that practically screamed he owned the place, words barking out of his mouth, “What’ve we got? I’m excited, man! Big guy said he’s got me somethin’ good.”
Scar quickly retracted his arrow at the sight. Not now.
“Please don’t yell, sir,” a woman by the tables replied, her face twisted into a grimace of annoyance.
“What? No one’s gonna be ‘round this shit-hole, we’ve got nothin’ to worry about!”
Everything about the loud mouthed man stuck out from the group of lab coats. From the sauce stained white T-shirt and blue jeans to the unmaintained buzz cut. Scar hated to stereotype but he would expect him here far more than any of these well put together white-coats.
The woman sighed, pushing her glasses up and letting her fingers linger against the bridge of her nose. Scrunched and annoyed, she continued to speak.
“I suppose you’re correct. But you’re here early, not everything has arrived.”
As her words entered the air she began to walk, her shoes clicking against the smooth floor. Her obnoxious guest followed, ending by a collection of crates.
“Psshh, whatever, I just wanna see it all first you know? Make sure I like it.” A grotesque grin split in half his face, tongue sticking through holes where teeth should have been.
“You are expected to use it whether you like it or not.” She snapped back, before sighing. With a roll of her eyes, she carried forward.
Her hands gripped the lid of a crate, lifting it away and resting it to the side.
Scar squinted and tilted his head, yet couldn’t quite make out what had been revealed, only knowing that it wasn’t the obnoxious yellow he had expected. Grian seemed to have the realization sooner and was already traversing the balcony for a better vantage point.
Scar followed, his gaze never once leaving the box until the full picture was clear.
And when it was, when the contents were visible, his blood ran cold.
Inside the crate, under the fingers of the man with the buzzed hair, was a gun unlike any Scar had ever seen. Sleek and black, with red accents that ran across it like branching rivers. So large that Scar debated how the man’s scrawny hands would hold it.
“Sick!” The man exclaimed, his finger tracing the red markings, “Couldn’t have made it purple or something though?”
The woman beside him quickly smacked his hand away, her expression twisting into a deeper scowl.
“You will use it, unless you don’t want to be paid.” A finger jabbed towards the man, brows pinched in her frustration with the overbearing nature of the man before her.
The man’s hands quickly shot up in surrender, babbled excuses and apologies falling from his lips as he briskly backed away. So much so, in fact, that he stumbled his way directly into another researcher, who in their jostled arms held a bag of quirk enhancer, causing it to drop to the ground with an expensive thwack.
Scar winced as a burst of yellow erupted from the bag, only a small amount but enough that the researcher quickly slapped a hand over their own mouth. The bumbling man and his ever running mouth however were not so lucky to have those instincts.
Like a rabid animal he began to pinch at his nose and cough in grunts. His vile sniffling and spitting interrupted any other noise in the room.
Scar braced for the quirks surge, a burst of flames, an earthquake, even a hundred new arms bursting from the man’s back.
Instead, the lights flickered on, glowing powerfully bright for only a few seconds before dying again.
Scar felt his relief for a moment.
An energy related quirk? Not something he would expect from a villain, but he supposed he’d be hypocritical in that sense. Anything used properly could be a weapon.
Talking to cats wasn’t exactly considered helpful in the hero industry after all.
It was only when his eyes fell from the lighting fixtures that the feeling of dread sank into him once again. Dozens of eyes had met his own.
Everyone had looked up.
The buzz in Scar’s limbs turned to ice as a chorus of yelling erupted. “Heroes!” They warned, every well dressed white-coat suddenly dropping their grace and scrambling towards the crates like the hungry rats in the corners.
Scar darted towards the stairs as Grian jumped over the banister, charging head first into the fray of battle.
By the time Scar was down he found his sidekick fighting off half a dozen desperate men from reaching the boxed weapons, caught in a violent clash of claws and knuckles.
Each elbow to the gut and baton to the kneecap only brought more his way, their feral hands plucking at feathers and tearing at clothes.
Grian was sinking in the flooding pressure, for one against many was far more than feasible, even for a hero.
Scar let his arrow fly, barely missing the hand of a white-coat that reached for another exposed gun, but nevertheless causing it to retreat. A small victory in a fight so crude.
The break in attention allowed Grian to gain some height in the fight, pushing his wings against the air and slamming his boot down against a panicking face.
A punch, a kick, an arrow launching across the room.
Its steel point pierced a palm, where a cry echoed out, bringing a hesitancy to any courage that remained in reaching fingers.
Many turning heel to flee.
With the onslaught of pristine coats, Scar nearly over-looked the woman they had been watching earlier as she took hold of the red accented gun and ran forward with it above her head.
Rather than shoot, she swung at Hot Guy. He was able to step away from a blow to the head- but not the swing that cracked into his rib. White hot pain seared his side. Scar’s hands fumbled for another arrow, though had to drop as he took another turn to avoid impact. Only when the hands of his partner appeared and pulled the lady away could he prepare another shot.
With her attention drawn to Grian she readied another blow to the head, but before any attack could land, Scar’s arrow was buried in the back of her shoulder.
In an instant the room became still, or so it felt with the cease of constant assault. The woman shrieked and dropped the gun to the floor with a clatter. Grian quickly scooped it into his own hands. Though the white-coats seemed reluctant to try anything, another arrow was notched by Scar into his bow, replacing the one most recently shot.
His gaze wildly snapped between those that still remained, many seemingly having escaped in the commotion. They remained stagnant, staring back up at him like deer caught in his headlights.
All that could be heard was the heavy breathing of himself and his partner.
“It’s empty,”
Grian finally said.
Scar looked to him, keeping his bow drawn and trained towards the white-coats.
“No ammo.” Grian gestured towards the intricate gun in his hands, his baton being used more as a pointing stick rather than the tool it was.
Scar nodded. He knew he should find interest in the weapon, take notes and study it. But he found that all he wanted to look at was Grian.
He smiled, and Grian smiled back.
“Alright… backup should be here soon, let’s just make sure no more of these guys get out,”
Scar said with a mumble when he found that his nerves would allow him to speak again.
It was Grian’s turn to nod back, before he set down the empty gun and stepped towards the other side of the grand room.
Scar’s gaze returned to the woman who now stood hunched over with one hand gripping her shoulder. He found that she was staring not at him, nor at Grian, but at a table so barren Scar had not previously thought to acknowledge it.
On top was what Scar assumed to be a handheld radio.
“So… what are you guys?” Scar questioned, making her attention snap his way,
“Some sort of supplier? Suppliers?”
The woman remained silent, staring at Scar through the scowling expression that still had yet to leave her face.
“Come on, you could at least talk to us after giving me and my partner such a poor welcome!”
Scar glanced back at Grian, who was now inspecting the burst bag of chalky yellow narcotics.
What Scar failed to notice was the buzzed hair buffoon who sat not far away: wide eyed, shaking, his feet fidgeting against the ground.
Only the sound of his sudden sprint finally alerted the hero to the danger that had yet to subside.
And Scar froze.
Grian broke into a dash faster than Scar could process, faster than Scar could hope to catch up to. He only watched as the tattered man snatched the so-called radio from the table and pressed while continuing his great escape towards the open doorway.
A metronomic hum played to the gentle flutter of the feathers that escaped from flapping wings.
No tune. No siren’s song.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Only a silent attempt to curl his voice to a name most important, before every part of Scar’s being began to shriek.
For a moment, it felt like flying. Though the scorching heat that melted wax wings would soon set every nerve ablaze. Falling was the better word.
The ground was unforgiving. The roaring blast left a piercing tone that shot through each ear. The sun mocked him, framing the meteor shower of debris.
A feather drifted above. A speck of scarlet in the white that clouded Scar’s vision.
The final glimpse before metal and brick crushed into bone.
From there, things turned hazy; A blink, and there was dust in the air. Concrete and cold, pressure firm against the spine, numbing sensations searing down limbs that screamed they should ache without an ache at all. A ringing purred through ear to ear, whispering sweet nothings that only served to dig fangs through his mind.
Another blink, a new contrast to the grey had arrived, despite being unwelcome. The pressure was building, burning now, trickles of a shimmering red just barely able to be seen puddling the floor. An inhale turned into a coughing fit, arms tried to reach forward to remove the sudden bile from tongue, but eyes pinched closed for another breath.
Opening once again, the dust had long settled. Scar wasn’t certain if the ringing in his ears was ringing at all anymore, or if it were an echo of something, someone, else. Tones and pitch wavered and warped, but his eyes refused to see anything but red and grey. His hands obeyed his calling this time, dragging forwards, trembling fingers extending outwards towards the open air.
A blink, and the pressure was releasing from his bones. There were new colours now, shapes that moved within sight. Tall, large, lights burning into his eyes where there was once barely any at all. There’s words being shared through the air, rushed voices that stirred him to open his mouth. A thought, barely there, a recline.
Lashes fluttered once more, and it’s clear there’s no longer weight against him. Everything was nothing more than a smear of paint on a wall. Hues that blended together into something his mind supplied with shades of sterile white, the world beneath his spine trembling through movement. Everything’s burning, from his lungs to his limbs.
A flicker of his eyes, and there’s someone standing above him. Something’s being shoved onto his face, and Scar can’t find the energy to fight it. It’s cold, but fresh. An inhale, and there was the urge to cough, yet it never came. It was getting harder to blink now. His eyes could barely make out the colours anymore, and that persistent ringing was back, pushing against his skull like a heavy boot.
Scar’s eyes tried to open once again, tried to view the world, but the torment upon his body was a lure for him to accept the whispers that had been trying to lull him to sleep; Thus? He did.
There’s not another blink, only a silent rest.