Running is for cowards. As far as he can remember, he’s never really run away from anything. Perhaps there was the one time he had been kidnapped, looking for a way to escape, but Bakugou considered an escape to be his victory. Although hotheaded, he is at least vaguely conscious of biting more than he could chew. There is little gain for attempting to defeat every single villain. No. He had known that there will come a point where his fame would skyrocket so high that no one would dare challenge him, quiver should he even look at someone the wrong way. His death was a miserable death. No pride, no fighting, no running. Death came to him in seconds and Bakugou, as hard as it had been, chose to move on. His perspectives haven’t changed. Running is for cowards. To run is to drop the chance of winning, to be afraid of losing. There’s nothing wrong with fearing loss but he does find something wrong in giving up. It is an infuriating thing to watch. The day he runs away will be the day he is no longer Bakugou Katsuki – a day of tragedy.

Does turning a blind eye count as running? He may not run but he certainly neglects. The ragdoll is far too willing to close his eyes and walk blind, muffle the noises that overwhelm him. His response to the pain which rips his very cells, makes him feel as though he is burning inside and out, is to merely block it out. Painkillers. There always comes a point that avoiding becomes too much. It lets the problem grow, evolve and mutate into something worse, something much uglier and monstrous. He would rather drown to death. Let his lungs scream and his own neck strangle themselves as his brain cries for air only to let his own body fill with saltwater, intoxicate his normal functions, kill him when his mind shuts down. Or perhaps he would rather burn to death, flames crackling across his skin and burning so hot that his sensors don’t believe it. The heat will become so overwhelming that his skin feels cold, freezing because his body will go into overdrive. Then it will be the carbon dioxide, the toxic fumes which crawl down his trachea and into his alveoli that shrivel and die. Anything, he thinks, to forget the pain is there.

A tragedy struck this morning. His bottle of drugs is running empty, few remain because he’s been taking too much. He’s woken up before to realise he can’t feel his own paws, unable to recognise the unsheathed claws were his. Even Bakugou’s own eyelids felt foreign. He doesn’t feel the sensation of lids closing, clapping against each other to keep his eyes from drying. It puts him in a strange predicament because he can’t remember where he stole them. He’s had a hard time remembering anything lately. Perhaps it is another side effect of the painkillers but even though he knows they’ll do him more harm than good in the long run, he can’t stop himself from taking them. The reaver wonders if anyone has noticed as he walks into the rainforest, turning his ears like radars as he hopelessly listens to the calls of an array of birds and other loud, screeching animals. He smells blood. A kill? Bakugou scrunches his nose. It must be considering he smells no crewmate stench and nothing about the metallic scent resembles decay. Recent. He notes that it must have been a recent appearance to The Typhoon’s borders, but whatever it is it has set itself within their imaginary walls.

His eyes squint, looking past the low-growing vegetation and prowling towards the smell. It isn’t accompanied by the smell of a crewmate so the reaver grows more suspicious the closer he gets. The idiots haven’t been setting traps around the area, right? He quickly stops to check his paws, as if expecting to have tripped over some rope and be consumed by a steel box. No, nothing. It is just his imagination. So far, the only logical explanation he can make is some prey or stranger has run into The Typhoon looking for help, or perhaps the animals are fighting with each other. He is aware the rainforest is home to many sorts of beasts far bigger than him and much, much stronger. If it weren’t for his fire elementals, he would perhaps be dead the moment he stepped into the forest. It was his tail that possessed the shape of fire that often warded the animals away. Nature hates fire.

Not too far now that he recognises a large, brutish form pressed against a tree. The beast looks as if it is being crushed by gravity and his sanguine eyes are instantly drawn to the large feline’s blood. A plethora of cuts and bruises. The ragdoll wouldn’t be surprised if the tiger was racked with broken bones and miseries. The creature would look impressive with palette of colours if not for the red accents oozing along his body, painting him with the kiss of agony. Bakugou comes closer, several metres away from the foreigner who appears to be dripping in and out of reality. A blur, he imagines. He can relate to everything becoming a blur. When the vision breaks, it is the ears that go on overdrive. Sounds become a sea of noise, so loud that it becomes as though you are underwater, unable to hear anything clearly. The reaver’s mistake is standing there for so long, assessing the situation but not actually absorbing anything. He can’t think, still frazzled with his own problems.

Maybe, he thinks, it is best to go find Silus or Junji…but their black mambas are always working too hard. It is their job, but The Typhoon needs their attention more than some stranger lurking around the depths of their forest. It is better he leaves the tiger to die. He hates liabilities. Although The Typhoon has always maintained a prosperous society, he sees little point in wasting away feeding the useless mouth of an extra. But, at the same time, there poses the problem of the rest of the allegiance. Some crewmates might wish to save the pitiful being for the sake of being nice and hospitable, to build upon a positive image for themselves. Perhaps this tiger seeks to join. Truth be told, he wishes he can just look the other way or summon a typhoon to throw this tiger away, let it return to the underworld where he belonged with all that blood and gore.

He realises the male hasn’t noticed him when a hostile roar explodes through the territory, cloaking the landscape with an awareness of the tiger’s presence. Bakugou looks back at the male who had been whimpering when the feline had first arrived, contorting his face into one of disgust. ”Ya need healin’?” the reaver lazily calls out, agitated because he would rather have just given the situation a blind eye and walk off to continue his meaningless stroll. Little does his know, however, of the other male’s aggression. Having boldly stepped another metre forward and revealing his position, Bakugou leaves himself open to being attacked. His fire elementals have always given him a sense of security, he can’t ignore the fact that his powers have saved him a number of times from grave injuries. Unaware of any danger that may befall him, the ragdoll daringly turns around to begin to look for Junji or Silus, the two overworked black mambas they happened to have.

It's easy to become hypocritical of your own ideals. Bakugou himself is not free from such sins but, to be completely honest, he would not be able to name any events of such. Most of his hypocritical actions stemmed from his subconscious. He was deeply unaware of the internal workings of his mind, the shifts and turns of every metal cog that twists within his mind. He is yet another machine with feelings, to be swept along with the ocean and a tide of subconscious thoughts. Self-awareness. He doesn't ever look to his own heart. Mind ever heart, he always says, mind over heart. But if Bakugou aimed to be so rational, why was he always depicted to hold such a cauldron of anger? The feelings are left to simmer, bubble and boil over until he pours at all sides. His anger rules and guides him, manipulating him as though he were a marionette, pulled and drawn. He's just a puppet to his own emotions, his heart he thinks he's got the better of. And yet his anger is not all that bad. It presents to him a desire to be known, to be treated well, a burning passion for justice. He is yet a fireball of judgement, criticism and need.

When Caesar speaks up, the ragdoll halts in place. It is not out of respect for the savannah cat but because he genuinely agrees with the Officer's reasoning. Why waste their resources? They are a war-clan, a group of pillagers and fearsome pirates. What exactly has bound them to helping every single lost, injured or confused stranger that appears on their borders? They have no responsibility for their lives and yet they act as though it is the most important thing in the world. Bakugou stiffens slightly at the yellow male's wording. It. He swivels around and looks back at the injured creature, realising there was an aura that seemed different to theirs. Something that lacked the same sentience as other Typhooners but not yet feral like the prehistoric monsters who roamed the island. The tiger feels foreign, exotic maybe. There is a danger that glints from the other's eyes. But to call the stranger an it... Bakugou is fixated on those words, ribs expanding as he takes a deep breath of air. That it has an identity. Even those utahraptors where called 'she' or 'he', given names as if they were one of them. The concept of membership and identity infuriates him. Outsiders are its.

Before he can even think of a reply to the officer, the obnoxious voice of Linux enters his mind. His ears twitch as Bakugou gently bites his bottom lip, giving the girl only a sideways glance. He was, of course, about to fetch the healers himself but Linux had barged in and taken the job. He doesn't want to waste any time just standing around this injured, bleeding male. Stop the bleeding. He snorts at her words. She makes it sound as if Bakugou knows how to do it and he knows he doesn't have anything on him other than his own two paws to try and stop the flow of blood. Still, he gives a reluctant nod. He remembers seeing the way Luca put pressure on a wound before and approaches the tiger, attempting to do the same and stop the bleeding. This, of course, leaves him open to being attacked.

[ ooc ] feel free to bitch slap bakugou

He used to do that too. He used to boil people down to the enemies and the people – the ones he was supposed to fight and the ones he was supposed to protect. He thought it was so easy, so simple. But at some point, it starts to become apparent that the world consists of too many grey areas. He was one of them. His methods of saving, of ‘heroing’, were questionable. They thought him to be an antihero, infamously unconventional, much scarier than a villain on their own. Perhaps it was because he was supposed to be one of the good guys. He’s too intimidating, too rash about what he wants. Manners are hard for him to use as well. It’s awkward trying to be nice because strangely enough, he’s always been rather genuine. He hates being dishonest. It was to the point that he was comfortable with being rude to strangers. He would rather give them a true image of himself than present a hospitable persona, as if he were a good person. Bakugou doesn’t like to disappoint.

It took him longer than he should have to realise the other male’s breaths, the aggression which begun to radiate from the feral creature. He wonders if part of the hostility that was beginning to leak from the foreigner’s skin was due to fear. Bakugou had existed to fight. He longed for battle, the sensation of being within combat – aerial or not. At this moment, he can almost feel a fight or flight moment surging within the male. The ragdoll tries to remain calm, still approaching and closing in the space between them to help with the other’s bleeding that he was no longer on guard. All he can do is pitifully stare at the raising of their arm, slamming down towards him. He feels his own balance slip, gravity overtaking him as he hits the ground with a thud, choking for air. Bakugou clenches his teeth together. The attack could have been worse. It would have been more powerful had the male not been in this state but now his back feels sore.

It's easy to let anger overtake him. The ragdoll growls in return, glaring at the tiger who looked now hazy in his vision. He hadn’t responded to Bakugou’s initial question, moved in to immediately attack him despite his state. Was he perhaps…deaf? Or maybe more of a foreigner than the other ones, one that can’t speak English. Well, he won’t try speaking Japanese to see if it would work out. Truthfully, he was rather mad. He hates being taken advantage of, about to raise his head when he realizes that the tiger was likely going to attempt the same aggression on him. He’ll have to do things forcefully and Bakugou has never had a problem with that when he launches from his hind legs, using his flames to boost him forward with more force, and attempt to slam against his side. Knowing his smaller size would affect his strength compared to his difficult for the Reaver, he then uses a veil of mild flames to conceal his position as he moves around to attempt to hit him over his head to knock him out. He can’t risk hurting the male. Not now, at least, while someone was fetching a medic.

If this was to work, he’d wait at the spot more cautious and guarded than he had been before. He was quietly sulking, annoyed that he had let himself get hit and rolling his limb against his shoulder blade, knowing that the area was going to bruise and be a complete bitch when he decides to go blacksmithing next.

[ ooc ] screams it's okay i'm late too. i was trying to gather muse to match yours but this will do i guess <33